


12 Rue Gotlib

by girltony



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Notting Hill Fusion, F/M, Hot Mess Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Soap Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 103,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girltony/pseuds/girltony
Summary: He's just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him.(Adrien is a superstar slowly cracking under the pressure of his celebrity; Marinette is a kindhearted baker who not-so-secretly has a thing for puns. They fall for each other, because of course they do. It's Notting Hill, folks!)
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 189
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [peachie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachgreentea/pseuds/peachgreentea)

Of course she’s seen his films; she’d passed his billboards every morning on the way to school in her later teen years, and, like everyone else her age, had the miniature versions taped to the wall over her bed for months whilst in college. Adrien Agreste has the kind of face that inspires poetry that garners thousands and thousands of notes on tumblr, and songs played on the harp at 3 a.m. by sharp-jawed neighbors that still starch their shirts. Adrien is a champion of every charitable cause any bleeding heart could ever require a celebrity to endorse (he loves Paris’s stray kittens more than his own family, apparently, and regularly features in photo shoots at animal shelters); there is a twinkle in his celadon eyes that promises he’s more playful than his trademark Disney Prince Smile would ever dare betray to anyone but an elite, private few...everyone, _every single last person_ in Paris has imagined being captured with him in paparazzi photos in Bali at least once in their lives. 

In short, Adrien Agreste is the sort of man that a woman like Marinette Dupain-Cheng, fourth generation baker, aged 29 years (and 48-months divorced), could never hope to possibly meet, and is therefore safe to love, in the way that all celebrities who post TikTok videos of themselves serenading their pet cats to the tune of Elvis Costello’s _She_ must be.

\--

12 Rue Gotlib is home to _Le Boulangerie Patisserie._ Marinette co-owns it with her parents, though the co-ownership is simply paperwork technicality for tax reasons these days. Sabine and Tom have long-since retired to the countryside, so the day-to-day operations now rely solely on Marinette. Marinette certainly doesn’t mind (sort of), because they are very lucky the bakery survived the economic difficulties of 2020 at all, despite the fact that she isn’t making much money at the moment. She is very grateful to have a place to live, rent-and-mortgage-free, with guaranteed employment for as long as she is able to knead bread dough. Though she wishes her dreams of running her own boutique hadn’t been dashed in the dawn hours of her 20s, Marinette’s is a pleasant life. 

She loves the 21st arrondissement. There is the park across the street, with its comfortable well-worn benches, and the school down the way, where she met her incredibly close-knit band of lifelong friends. A few doors to the south is Marinette’s favorite fabric shop, and just a few kilometers north is the Couffaine family’s boat, happily docked, despite the quiet since beloved Anarka passed away, where Marinette and her dear flatmates Alya and Nino spend most of their Saturday nights. On weekends in Spring, there is the market with its stalls groaning under the weight of fresh vegetables, home-mixed fragrances, amateur splatter paintings and hastily sewn beach cover-ups; at Christmas, Papa Noël sets up shop in the park for photo opportunities (Marinette has dressed up as an elf on several occasions, and she enjoyed it more than she cares to admit). Andre the Ice Cream Man, fabled for his near-paranormal matchmaking abilities, can occasionally be spotted on the corner opposite the bakery, and his appearances always bring Marinette extra luck. 

It is a quiet neighborhood; as quiet as anywhere in Paris can be, and despite some of the disappointments she has endured here, Marinette wouldn’t choose to live anywhere else.

\--

It is an unusually cold morning in May when Marinette’s life changes forever. 

“Hey, we make any money yesterday?” Nino calls from where he’s dragging a massive tray of croissants out of the oven. 

“We turned a total profit of three-hundred-and-fifty-eight euro,” Marinette calls back. The topmost loop of her braid is caught in the bakery case’s light fixture; she has three of her blunt fingernails rooting around, trying to coax the trapped hair from the bits of angry sharp metal they’ve decided to so fiercely entwine.

“Sweet! That’s only kinda disappointing,” Nino shouts. “Can I go get Starbucks with the company card?”

“We have coffee here.” Marinette hisses in pain; the lightbulb is _hot._

“Are you stuck in the bakery case again?” Nino’s chuckle isn’t concealed; he isn’t the type to hide any emotion, really. “You sound like you’re trapped in something, and I _know_ you forgot your hat.”

“I do not sound like _anything_ ,” Marinette gives three sharp tugs. Her scalp screams in protest. She is free at last, but at great cost to her follicles. “And I’m not trapped. Anyway, there’s no _sound_ for being stuck to a lightbulb.” The bakery case doesn’t laugh derisively at her, because it isn’t alive; it doesn’t have to, though, because she can imagine the sound well enough on her own.

“There is, I’ve memorized it, because you taught me. It’s like...a rustling,” Nino appears in the kitchen’s doorway, wiping his floury hands on one of Alya’s tiny lacy aprons that is very obviously a sex thing. “I want a Unicorn frapp.”

“Rose has ruined you,” Marinette rolls her eyes at him. Ugh, her hair is ruined, and now she has jam smashed across her boobs.

“ _And_ you,” Nino beams. He pushes his glasses up the graceful arch of his nose. “I know you want one too.”

“Make it a venti,” she says with a flap of her hand, pushing her frayed fringe out of her face. “Extra whip.”

“You got it, chief,” he salutes her, and zips away into the outside world. 

A few moments later, Marinette flips the sign to “ _ouvert,_ ” and her day officially begins.

The morning rush won’t come for an hour or two; as she waits for Nino to return, she only has two customers. The first is a little boy with a mop of unruly brown curls. He flashes Marinette a deeply cheeky grin as he twirls around the bakery on his bright yellow Heelys. She gives him a cookie for free, because she’s a pushover.

The second customer is…

...well. He’s not wearing Heelys.

She’s got her braid caught on the light fixture _again,_ because she’s filling the morning’s gibassier tray and also she’s a complete disaster, when she spots the toes of Louboutin Dandelion flats in electric green coming to rest just on the other side of the counter. There has only ever been one pair of Dandelions made in green and red, and there was much to-do about it at the time; they were the world’s costliest pair of custom-commissioned shoes in the winter of 2021, and she’d spent _ages_ raging about it with Alya. The fact that anyone could afford to drop that many euro on a pair of shoes that would be out of style in three seconds was appalling to them both.

Marinette loves them, of course, as artwork. They are ugly, and beautiful, and chaotic; a delicious blend of classic, fluid, streamlined form and stupid, kitschy, ridiculous, melodramatic execution. Seeing them in person, she kind of wants to _bite_ them. They look like Christmas candy. They look like _balance._ She wishes she’d designed them.

Marinette rips yet more hair out of her head as she stands up again. Why Adrien Agreste, owner of those lovely-disgusting shoes is standing in her tiny, ancient bakery is anyone’s guess.

When she finds him watching her with the gentlest smile she has ever seen on anybody _ever_ (outside of Ouran High School Host Club, probably), she audibly gasps. She doesn’t even realize she’s done it. She’s still got strands of her own hair dripping from between her fingers. 

“I didn’t get this in anything!” she blurts out, holding her hand out for him to observe. He tilts his golden-haloed head at her, wide, practically opalescent green eyes crinkling up at the corners as he takes her in, smile curling into something approaching an amused little smirk. “I--well, I never get it in the pastries, I’m a seasoned professional...but...I forgot my hat today. Upstairs. Where I live.”

“Don’t worry, Mademoiselle. I know you didn’t; the glass is transparent,” Adrien-freaking-Agreste reassures her, tapping one long fingered, piano-playing, perfectly manicured nail just above where Marinette’s still holding tongs with her other (hairless) fist inside the bakery case. He leans across the counter (an easy feat considering he’s got a whopping 34 centimetres of height on her) to whisper conspiratorially, just inches from her ear, “Perhaps your shampoo is what makes the glaze so sweet.”

Marinette drops her tongs, cheeks going so red it actually hurts, when she spots Yellow Heelys committing suspicious acts with a bag of cookies over Adrien’s massive right shoulder.

 _Oh, great,_ she thinks, huffing a sigh. _Really, Thomas? NOW?_

“Hold that thought,” she says quietly, sliding the case shut. Yes, Adrien Agreste might have just **_WHISPERED INTO HER EAR!!!!!!!!1111_ ** **,** but she can’t allow brazen madeleine kidnapping in her place of business. 

“Excuse me, Thomas,” she says softly, kneeling to level the little boy with her best kindergarten teacher eyebrow-raise. “I believe some cookies accidentally climbed into your pocket when you weren’t looking.”

“They didn’t climb into my pocket! I put them in my shirt on purpose,” he laughs at her, unzipping his hoodie to show her. Then his face falls, lip quivering into a pout. “Oh. I got caught, didn’t I.”

“You did,” she smiles at him, and ruffles his hair. “It’s a good thing you did, too. You know you can’t eat almond flour, can you? Remember what happened last time?”

(There were hives. Lots of hives.) Thomas shudders, and gives a little nod. He kicks at the floor with one toe, and then places his pilfered treasure back on the rack. Marinette gives his knapsacked-back a pat. “There you go. No harm, no foul. You’re not going to do it again, right?”

“I just really wanted another cookie, ‘cuz the first one was so good,” he says dejectedly. He holds out a handful of change. “Can I buy a bag with this much?”

No. He definitely can’t. But Marinette is, after all, a softie. She leads him to the bakery case, murmuring a brief, embarrassed apology to Adrien, before settling her little customer in front of the macarons. 

“You can have one of the big ones, okay?” she says. 

“Can I have the one shaped like Iron Man?!!” he cries, clapping.

“I promise you can have that one next time, _if_ you don’t take anything else,” she says. “Today you’ll have to settle for chocolate.”

“Okay, Marinette!” Thomas gives another wide spin on his toes, and holds out his hand excitedly. “Chocolate is the BEST!” 

Marinette turns her back for three seconds. “Good, just remember our deal, ok--”

She doesn’t finish her sentence though, because Thomas has just crashed straight into Adrien’s thighs. Adrien catches him with a soft _oof,_ but it’s too late--the kid’s already fallen. Not literally; just in the metaphorical sense.

Oh, dear.

“YOU’RE CHAT NOIR,” Thomas roars so loudly that it’s like a fire alarm going off. “I LOVE YOU.”

And he is. He _is._ That must be why Adrien is in Paris again. He’s a Hollywood starlet now, of course...he hardly ever comes home now. Not that Marinette knows that. Not that she cares about celebrity gossip, no _way._ The latest chapter of his insanely popular anime-inspired superhero films is premiering this week; he must be here doing press.

Oh _god._ Marinette scrambles to beg forgiveness, tearing back around the counter to pull Thomas off the most famous person in freaking Paris, but Adrien stops her with a brief, amused little wink. Her heart explodes in her chest. She goes still as a video on pause.

“How furry observant of you!” Adrien gently peels Thomas away from his obscenely long brocade legs. “And _you’re_ Thomas, right?”

“How did you _know?!!_ ” Thomas gasps at him. 

“I have my ways,” he puts on a bright, canine-bearing grin. “Now, I don’t think I heard you apologize to Mlle. earlier. Do you think you could do that? For me?”

“Oh!” Thomas slaps his own cheek in shock. “Mlle. Marinette! I’m sorry!”

“Do superheroes steal cookies?” Adrien presses.

“No! Never!”

“Do you want to be a superhero?”

“YES!”

“So will you promise never, ever to take anything else?”

“I solemnly swear!” He actually crosses his little heart with his cookie and everything.

Adrien mirrors Marinette’s earlier hair ruffling. “Good. Now, let’s say thank you to Mlle. Marinette for being the nicest baker in all of Paris! She could’ve been angry, right? But instead she gave you another cookie! For _free!_ ”

Thomas shakes with wonderment. “She _did!_ ”

Adrien nods sagely. “Okay, you ready? 3...2…”

“THANK YOU MARINETTE,” they say in unison. 

Marinette’s jaw doesn’t fall off her head or anything--she’s probably in an actual state of shock now, like the kind of fictional shock that only happens in the sillier movies Adrien has starred in over the years, but all she can do is just nod stupidly at the two people grinning so brilliantly at her. 

“Can I have an autograph?” Thomas says, turning back to blink up at him.

“No,” Adrien says regretfully, “but I might give you a _paw-_ tograph if you say please.”

“PLEASE!” Thomas roars, and Marinette actually melts. She melts. Into a puddle. That’s all she is now, a stupid, messy-braided, starstruck puddle. 

Adrien bends to rummage through one of the three boutique shopping bags that rest at his feet, and stands with a frown. How does he even have shopping bags? The stores are still closed. It’s 7 o’ clock in the morning. “Hmm. Mademoiselle Marinette, may I trouble you for a pen and a bit of register paper? All of my receipts are rife with incriminating evidence; I can’t sign one of those.”

“Ooh, EVIDENCE,” coos Thomas. 

“Blargh,” says Marinette, and fumbles to retrieve what he’s asked of her. 

With great care, Adrien scribbles out a messy pawprint, and a huge, looping monogram for the little cookie thief. Just to add further arrhythmia to Marinette’s pending cardiac event, the tip of his pink, pink tongue pokes itself out from between his teeth as he writes, like he’s never written anything more important in his entire life.

“There,” Adrien says, placing the scrap of register paper in Thomas’s outstretched palm. “Don’t sell this on eBay ‘til you’re old enough for it to be worth a ton of money, okay?”

“Okay!”

“Now go,” Adrien says. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be on your way to school, aren’t you?”

Thomas nods brightly. “Bye, Chat Noir!” he says, gliding away into the early morning light. 

Marinette and Adrien watch him leave, wearing twin locutions of bemusement.

Three seconds of stillness pass before Marinette remembers she’s basically lost the will to live. 

“Oh my god,” she breathes, “I am so sorry. Please, have--whatever you want, on the house. You want croissants? How about brioche? You can--you can--I’ll give you the deed to the store. Yeah. Um. Yeah, it’s all yours now. Please...enjoy...owning this bakery from now on.” She takes a sharp breath. “Please don’t sue me.”

“Sue you? For _that?_ ” Adrien laughs brightly at her. “Oh, no. Believe me, I’ve been through worse.” He pauses. “Today, actually. But you don’t want to hear about it.” He clears his throat. “No, um...I’m sorry I stole your register paper.”

“Oh my god,” she mutters again.

Adrien continues watching her for a little while, unblinking; there’s something calculating and curious about the expression, but Marinette can’t for the life of her figure out what he’s thinking. She gets caught up in that gaze, though; it’s almost creepy how perfect he is up close, the flawlessness of his skin, the crisp lines of his blazer and matching trousers. His cheekbones are high, dusted a muted rose; she thinks he’s wearing concealer under his eyes. His lashes are long, and tipped blond.

He has dimples. 

They Photoshop them out in a lot of his spreads.

They are deeper than she expected.

“Right, well,” he says after a moment, “thank you for being so kind to the wayward youth of Paris. You’re an inspiration. I’ll...be off, then.”

“Wait,” Marinette says abruptly, “you--you haven’t…” She loses her words, trying to shake away the fog filling her brain. “Please, let me--the brioche, it was my father’s specialty--”

“Oh, my apologies. I’m window shopping today,” he says politely, and that soft model smile makes a reappearance. She realizes that it isn’t anything like the one he was wearing before, when she was making an idiot of herself; this is--oh. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know it doesn't make a lot of sense, but if I can _pretend_ I'm eating something, it makes the diets easier. I’m on a cut. Movie premieres, and all that. _So_ much press.”

“Oh,” Marinette murmurs, slackening. “Well, if you change your mind...everything is really tasty. I mean, I’m bragging now, you’re probably used to, like, gold flake and, and, truffle oil, or...truffle oil? Come _on,_ Marinette, I--well. Uh. The brioche...is. It’s good.”

“Yes, that’s what the internet says,” he looks longingly at the macarons, and adds nothing more.

The silence turns awkward. 

“Right,” Adrien says at last, a hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Bye, then.”

Shifting his shopping bags on his forearm, he strolls out as quietly as he came in.

Marinette blinks at the spot on the floor where he’d stood, still picturing those ridiculous Dandelions.

“...what the hell just happened?” she asks the empty shop.

\--

She finds 2 euro on the counter by the register.

Adrien has paid for Thomas’s cookies.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah, I know Disneyland-esque Marvel-shaped macarons are like sacrilege in Paris. I feel like Marinette would 100% make them anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Nino pushes the door open with one shoulder, arms laden with a cluster of frozen drinks Marinette knows he didn’t mean to order. He never comes back with what he originally wanted; he’s the most impulsive coffee buyer in the universe. She’s still floating on an emerald cloud as he places her unicorn frapp beside her elbow, and, being her oldest friend, he picks up on her weird mood immediately.

“Ooookay, you haven’t told me off for showing up with three extra drinks,” he says slowly. “What happened while I was gone?”

“So, like,” Marinette begins, staring at the place Adrien had stood not three minutes earlier, “Alya talks to famous people all the time.”

“Yeah, and they’re all terrible,” Nino takes a deep slug off his first drink. Then he does a double-take. “What, did somebody famous come in? What the _heck,_ the best stuff always happens when I’m gone.”

“No,” Marinette says immediately, though she’s not entirely sure why she’s denying it. “I mean, sort of. I mean, not really, but yes. They didn’t...buy anything.”

“So that’s a yes.”

If Nino finds out Adrien Agreste, former teenybopper love idol turned actual supermodel and award-winning actor showed up in _her bakery,_ she will never live it down. He still teases her for being 29 years old and a subscriber to Adrien’s Instagram account. She wants to tell Nino anyway. She’s _dying_ to tell him. But...if she ever tells him, she’ll never hear the end of it, from him _or_ Alya.

Alya’s been trying to land an interview with Adrien for years. 

Lord, Adrien Agreste was in the same room as she was, he was _talking to her,_ and all she did was try to...give him her bakery.

“Who was it?” Nino blinks owlishly at her.

Marinette misses her mouth with her straw, instead jamming the tip of it into her left nostril. The pain brings her back to reality; she gives her nose a rub. “Oh, just some...YouTuber.”

“Ugh. Disappointment. They’re the _worst,_ ” Nino groans. Then he leans sideways and waggles his eyebrows at her. “You know, I met Clara Nightingale once.”

“Ooooh, she’s great.”

(Adrien is better.

...than everyone.

Ever.)

“Well...I mean. I saw her once, sort of, when I was bringing Alya lunch.” He scratches his head. “She was walking into the bathroom, though. And like, I burped really loudly, I think? I don’t remember why. Maybe a sandwich was involved. Alya was so mad...yeah, it was a whole thing.”

“That definitely doesn’t count,” the corner of Marinette’s lips quirk.

“You finish filling the cream puffs?” Nino asks. Marinette smacks herself. Of course she hasn’t. Nino laughs at her. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it.” His grin fades just a few notches when she doesn’t respond. “This famous person...they weren’t _actually_ terrible to you, were they? Because, like, Alya knows people...”

The protective edge in his voice is enough to dissolve the last vestiges of starstruck weirdness from Marinette’s mind. She’s back; she’s okay. It’s no big deal that her childhood crush just whispered in her ear about shampoo flavor additives, and dazzled her with incredible kid-handling skills, like she’s living out some kind of 90s rom-com meet-cute. No biggie. She’s totally normal.

“No, Nino, it was no big deal. I’m just still kind of tired,” she reassures him, and it isn’t even a lie. She _is_ tired; tired enough to have slept through her alarm and forgotten her hat. She’s going on four weeks straight without a day off; it’s not like the bakery is going to run itself without her.

“Okay, Mari,” he says. “Keep your secrets. I got you.” He ties his apron back on, just as the bells above the door jingle again. “You know, after the morning rush, I could hold down the fort for you. Juleka will be in at 12; I could cover things today, if you want. I know what I’m doing now. And Jules is pretty awesome, too.”

Marinette seriously considers that offer for a few seconds, before her good sense rules that out. No, she doesn’t need to take a day off just because some Hollywood dreamboat interrupted her morning and paid for a cookie he didn’t even eat. She’s not messed up because he’s as sweet, lovely, warm, and kind as all the people on Quora who’ve met him in person have always said. And he smells like citrus. And he has dimples. “No, no, Nino,” she says, the sound of Adrien’s ringing laughter suddenly audiating, unwarranted, through her head. “I’m good. You’re going to need someone to help you finish those extra drinks anyway; you know Jules is vegan.”

“I remembered! The green one is soy,” he says happily, before disappearing into the kitchen again.

The rush begins and ends soon enough, and Marinette has almost returned to full functionality by the time her customers begin thinning out.

“I’m just gonna pop upstairs real quick for breakfast,” Nino says. “I’ll grab your hat.”

She thanks him, and retrieves her now-melted pseudo-coffee from beside the sink. Time to give the floor a quick once over; somebody’s spilled a glass of orange juice under the table closest to the door, and has smashed half a croissant into the edge of the wall, if she’s correctly identified that dark, congealing lump against the molding. She sighs. As much as she loves her regulars and appreciates their business, she does wish they’d occasionally mop up their messes with one of the eight billion paper napkins they go through every day. She’s going to have to crawl under the table to scrape that lot up. 

The bell for the door chimes, and she pulls herself to standing. “Be right with you,” she says, frapp in one hand, dead croissant in the other, wondering where Nino’s stashed the mop, hoping he hasn’t accidentally brought it upstairs with him again. 

She turns around with the swiftness all post-morning-rush food-service workers have still thrumming through their overtaxed veins, and of course, _of COURSE_ she bashes straight into the customer who’s just entered. Because _of course_ said person is standing two centimetres away from her, with absolutely zero regard for her personal space.

And of course she is still holding that damned frappuccino when their bodies collide with a solid, warm smack. It explodes all over both of them in a pink-purple-turquoise cataclysm.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” gasps her customer, and Marinette breathes out a frustrated sigh, willing herself with her eyes closed not to tell the man off for being so close to her for no discernible reason. Annoying, inconvenient, _and_ a creep? A triple-threat so early in the morning! Wonderful. “Oh, gosh, really, I--”

“No, no,” she says, slowly opening her eyes. “I was the one carrying--oh.” Her stomach drops down so deep into the Earth it probably melts into the mantle. “Oh no.”

Because there he is again: Adrien.

And now he’s covered in unicorn.

\--

Adrien stares down at the ruination of his clothing, blinking slowly. The girl--Marinette--stares back, her pretty, heart-shaped face contorted into the most horrified expression he’s ever seen somebody wear in real life. She’s quite plastic, this little baker; not in the Barbie-doll way, but in the true meaning of the word, all cartoonish jerky limbs and silly, exaggerated faces. She’s so animated. 

She’s adorable, really, even if she has just painted him in what appears to be liquefied My Little Pony. His trousers are brocade, and the matching Summer blazer is too; they’ll be a write-off. Especially because something greasy that might’ve been a pastry once is currently oozing down his left breast pocket.

Nathalie is right. He needs to stop sneaking up on people. He doesn’t mean to do it; he spent his entire childhood learning to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible. That’s a hard habit to kick.

Bakery Girl’s hands suddenly fly into a frenzy, scrambling to scrape at his chest, and oh, oh lord, there are tears in her eyes. She doesn’t seem to care that _she’s_ covered in drink, too.

“I’m so sorry!” she gasps, rushing to the counter to retrieve a bunch of napkins. She paws at him uselessly again, spreading the mess around more than anything, setting the stain ever deeper in the delicate fabric. “I’m so, so, so stupid, I--oh my god, that was unforgivable, I can’t believe I just--wow, your waist is so defined--I’m so SO sorry, you don’t even know-- _why_ were you standing so close to me? God...”

...why _had_ he been standing so close to her? 

Adrien stills her wrists in his fists, gentle as he can, because she’s _tiny,_ before she can start sweeping recycled paper fiber over his damp crotch. She realizes immediately what she’s almost done, and the tears actually start to fall down her cheeks now. Oh, poor thing; she actually squeaks. It isn’t even her fault, truth be told; _he_ was the one that was being a weirdo, watching her kneel in a puddle of orange juice, unbothered, to reach whatever customer casualty he now has smeared down his chest.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, in his best Prince Charming voice. “They’re just clothes.”

Well. That isn’t strictly true; they are worth _a lot,_ but it isn’t like he has any sentimental attachment to them, anyway.

“Just _clothes?!!”_ Marinette roars. “Just clothes? _No,_ they’re beautiful! I would give my left _arm_ to--oh no, OH NO, I’ll replace them!” she cries, trying to cover her face with her hands even as he’s latched onto her arms. She bends over to fall into her palms, crumpled napkins falling around them like cherry blossom petals. “I’m so sorry. I’m _so sorry._ The pants are--what, it’s all Dolce & Gabbana, right? Right, 2020, and, and, okay, so that’s--that’s four hundred euro, and the blazer is, is, what, oh god, twelve...twelve hundred, oh god, plus the tailoring, and the shirt, that’s Tom Ford, that’ll be--one hundred--your SHOES. Your _Dandelions._ ” She uncovers her face one finger at a time. She peeks, horrified, at the floor, and then--she heaves a massive sigh of relief. “I didn’t get your shoes. I didn’t get your shoes! Thank _god,_ I can--I don’t know what I would’ve _done--_ god, this is still a disaster...”

“Wow, you really know your menswear,” Adrien grins at her, trying to stem the tide of her panic, squeezing her wrists reassuringly. “And don’t believe everything you hear. Even if you _had_ got the shoes, I didn’t commission them. They were a gift, for my father actually. He hated them. I loved them. We didn’t pay a cent.” Marinette stills quite rapidly then, though she’s still trembling like a leaf. “I didn’t pay for _any_ of this, honestly. I can’t justify spending that kind of money on myself.”

“You…” Marinette blinks those bluebell eyes, and oh, she has lovely lashes. They curl at the ends; he’s paid good money to get his lashes looking like hers. Lucky. They are sticky with frappuccino and tears. What an absolute travesty, that eyelashes like these should be in this state. “You can’t?”

“No,” Adrien laughs, willing her to calm down just a bit. “I’m _famous,_ silly. People just give me stuff all the time.”

“They do?” she murmurs.

“Yeah. Normally I just wear my father’s stuff, honestly. It’s in my contract,” he laughs. “Besides, even if that weren’t the case, this really was my fault, isn’t it?” She doesn’t seem convinced.

Huh. What else can he do? “Do I seem upset? What was it you said this morning?” He smooths the pads of his thumbs soothingly along the tendons running up toward her palms. “No harm, no fowl. Chin up, Princess.”

Marinette’s cheeks, which are already flushed, go so red now they’re practically purple. “ _Princess_?” she sputters.

Oh. Oops. He’s played Chat for years now; he can’t help that he slips back into character sometimes; that he isn’t sure where he begins and the cat ends most days, like he’s _always_ been Chat Noir. Marinette, random baker, doesn’t need to know about that peculiarity, though. He clears his throat, opting to just breeze right through that one. “Do you have a toilet? I’ll just pop in and change.”

“I--oh. I mean. I do, but it’s upstairs…”

“Where you live, right?” Adrien quirks an eyebrow. “That’s what you said earlier.”

“I _did?_ ” Marinette groans. “I _did._ No. No. I’m not being weird. I’m--I’m not like, trying to, to, _drag you into my house..._ I’m not, like, a kidnapper, or--how creepy would I be--I--Oh my god, this has to be one of the worst human interactions you’ve ever had with anyone. What is _happening_ right now?”

“Is it? One of the worst?” Adrien squints at her, watching the light shift blue over the crown of her head, tracking the pastry crumbs caught in the frazzled coils of her now-gummy braid. “I don’t know,” he ruminates. “No paps are chasing me, you’re not trying to get me to sign anything so you can resell it somewhere, you’re not propositioning me, you’re not--” Adrien stops himself. “Is this one of the worst human interactions _you’ve_ ever had?”

Huh. He hadn’t even thought about that. Usually people are happy to see him. Well, okay, normal people. He’s pissed off a director or two in his day. 

All this woman has done is anguish since he showed up.

“I…” Marinette sucks in a breath through her teeth, cogs working inside her mind. “Oh. No. No, I...guess it isn’t.”

She’s so surprised by this revelation, Adrien can’t help but laugh. He’s starting to feel uncomfortably sticky now, though; in fact, all of his skin feels rather tight, and he’s not entirely sure it’s the coffee’s fault. “Would you mind if I use your restroom, then? You know, if the offer not to kidnap me still stands. I’m sorry for the imposition.” He takes a step back to survey her, his gaze roving from her messy fringe, down the length of her little black dress and soiled pink apron, from the stretch of her stockinged thighs to her black suede ballet flats. She...holy moly, she’s a gorgeous, curvy little thing, isn’t she? 

Oh. Right. So that’s why it’d been so interesting, watching her clean up under the table before. Of course. Duh, Adrien. He’s the creepy one here, isn’t he? Oh, how said tables have turned.

He clears his throat again, suddenly acutely aware that he’s still holding her wrists in his hands. 

“Yes! Yes. Yes,” Marinette says, twisting away from him, and the absence of the warmth of her skin against his palms leaves him with an unexpected sense of loss. 

Well.

“Okay, um, let me just--okay, this way,” this time she grabs _his_ wrist, and he’s so surprised by it that he actually goes “Whoa!” He can’t remember the last time someone that wasn’t a co-star or a fight choreographer or a paparazzo just _grabbed_ him. The most rabid of his fans can’t even do that anymore; nobody ever gets that close now.

His stomach twists. He likes it.

Huh.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, there are some lines that are directly yanked from the film in this chapter. what can i say? you don't just throw away the opportunity to make marinette stammer like hugh grant. the parallels are too beautiful.
> 
> i'm on my quantic kids bullshit in this one, too. fair warning.
> 
> i hope everybody is enjoying this saccharine mess. <3

Marinette leads Adrien up a steep flight of stairs. Adrien has been quiet since they came through the front door, cataloguing everything in her childhood home. It’s nice; cozy. She leaves him with another rambly apology as she darts up and away into the restroom, muttering something about “lacy bras.”

The flat is very warm, decorated in comforting tones of lavender and white. Turntables are tucked into a corner; he wonders if Marinette likes to spin. He can’t put his finger on why, but he thinks that’s unlikely. Everything smells of fresh bread. Carefully tended potted plants line the window sills; there are orchids and succulents and herbs. A half-eaten fiadon with three forks still spearing it rests on the kitchen island, surrounded by a mess of bills, recipes, and computer print-outs.

It is comfortable, and lived-in, and Adrien hasn’t been inside a house like this (that wasn’t a set) since long before his maman left.

Domesticity is such a foreign concept to him. He craves it the way he imagines normal people do notoriety. The grass is always greener, etc. etc.

There are photos everywhere; an older couple Adrien can safely assume are Marinette’s parents feature in most of them. How happy they look: in every single scene, at least one person is laughing. School awards ceremonies, class photos, Christmases, a baby’s christening. Something in his chest cracks open and floods him, making his fingers tingle. Her family seems so kind. He’s peering at a shot of a tiny Marinette chasing a butterfly at the park, her parents laughing in the foreground, when she reappears above him. 

“Okay! It’s ready,” she says, ringing-bell soprano voice cracking on the last word. “Do you want to come up?”

He ascends the stairs, but she hasn’t moved. She’s still waiting on the top step, watching him, cheeks pinking again as he comes nearer. 

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asks uncertainly, not comprehending why she’s blocking his way, and he pauses one step below her. Their gazes are level. They are of a height now. Her nose is sprayed with light freckles. Her lips are very red.

“Of course! I mean of course I don’t mind. Sorry, it’s just--you, looking at...my baby photos...it’s all so weird,” she says softly. “I mean, you’re on my stairs. What in the _world_ are you doing on my stairs?”

“Ah,” Adrien ducks his head. “Well, I’m not capable of teleportation without a ton of CG, so the stairs are probably the best way to get where I’m going.”

“It--it’s not really about the stairs, is it?” she giggles near-hysterically, and he can smell cinnamon and vanilla on her breath. Fine lines scrunch up the edges of her cheeks and eyelids.

Once again he realizes that he’s too close to her, but he’s not sure how she’d take it now if he started walking back down to the second floor. “I’d gathered that,” he smiles softly back at her. “I’m sorry to tease you.” 

She isn’t backing away either, though. If anything she's leaned in further, attention fixed, direct and intense.

He tries not to make any sudden moves.

“I--I mean. I mean the situation is weird,” she says slowly, visibly struggling not to unleash another stream of babbling. “That you’re here at all. It’s...surreal. But--nice. ”

Ten seconds pass. Their respiration syncs.

“Right. No. Sorry. Um.” She gulps. “I’m moving now." Side-stepping him, and he has to press up against the wall to allow her enough room to go. Her shoulder blades brush his ribcage, skirt whispering against his kneecaps, and his entire body zings with electricity at the contact.

\--

Why is the flat such a mess?!! Why is it _always_ such a mess?

Marinette stuffs dirty dishes into drawers, and Nino’s discarded hoodies into the cupboards, and all of Alya’s notes from the kitchen island into the sink. There is a fly on her cake. Stupid fly. Why didn’t anyone cover up the cake last night? Why are they all _barbarians?!!_

She should offer Adrien a drink. Should she make tea? Or coffee? Is he thirsty? He’s on a cut. Maybe he’s only drinking, like, lemon-ginger water with cayenne pepper or something. Would it be more rude to offer him something sparse, like water, or something fattening, like a daiquiri? _What? Why would she offer him a daiquiri at 10 a.m.?_ She doesn’t even have the ingredients to make one. Agh, why can’t she just be a...a normal human?

She’s cursing at a jar of honeyed apricots in the fridge when Adrien’s footsteps creak above her head. She tilts her chin up, resolving to offer him his pick of anything they have in the kitchen, when her thoughts derail like a train in a _Final Fantasy_ game.

Gone are Adrien’s stained, fancy clothes. In their place are a pair of incredibly tight vinyl...are those _leggings…_? No, they’re trousers, they’re just really form-fitting...and…

...and Marinette’s old Jagged Stone t-shirt.

“I know this is terribly rude of me,” he says softly, and he’s...yep. He’s actually blushing. Could she die? _Will_ she die? Is she already dead? Yes. The answer is yes. “I don’t know where my other shirt went. I must’ve left it at the store; I...well, you’ll see in the tabloids tomorrow what I had to deal with, ha...Anyway, do you mind if I take this?” He plucks at the shirt with two fingers. “I’ll have it sent back as soon as I can. I meant the thing I said about thieves and superheroes; I don’t intend to lose my job, after all.”

It stretches taught across his pecs, sleeves squeezing his biceps. He’s stretching it out. She can see the slimmest line of stomach just over his trouser fly.

“Keep it,” Marinette says immediately. “I hardly wear it anymore.” (This is a complete lie. She slept in it last night.)

He seems to clock that. "You’re so generous. You gave that kid those cookies; now you’re offering me the shirt off your back.” 

“I haven’t been on my back in a while. ” Adrien tries to morph a guffaw into an unconvincing cough. She winces, mortified, realizing what she’s said. “IT. The SHIRT. Hasn’t--hasn’t been...on. Me. On my back."  
  
He's doing that soft-smile thing again, the one that makes her feel...well...cherished, for want of a better word. “You still haven’t changed, though. You were--were you cleaning up for me, instead?”   
  
"No! I'm _super_ clean! All the time!--I mean--" He shakes his head at her. "I mean, I wascleaning up a bit. We--we all work a lot, so...I don’t usually put paperwork in the sink. Well, sometimes I do. I’m _completely_ normal right now.” She tries to breathe. “Okay. No I’m not. So I’m going to stop talking.”

Adrien crosses the room to perch on the arm of the sofa, long right leg slipping over its counterpart. “I really appreciate this. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Marinette can’t begin to fathom what he’s talking about. She was the one holding the coffee; he doesn’t owe her anything. She’s too dumbstruck to express that. “EAT?” is what her useless brain directs her to offer, hand jerking open the fridge door to display those stupid apricots. “I mean...you can eat. Something. Anything! We have apricots in honey! Which...now that I think of it, are pretty pointless, because they don’t taste like apricots anymore. If we wanted honey, why wouldn’t we...just...buy honey?” 

“That’s a question for the ages,” Adrien runs a hand through his wild golden undercut, ruffling it into the familiar mess of Chat Noir’s trademark bedhead. “Actually, I _am_ here to eat. I came back for that brioche, if you wouldn’t mind selling me some. I’m a great tipper.” There’s that wink again. 

“Really?” she draws closer to him, without realizing she’s done so, heart fluttering. “But your cut--”

“What can I say? You sold me. Your business methods are unorthodox, I’ll grant you, but you got me coming back, didn’t you?” he says, voice dropping an octave, and the blood begins pounding in Marinette’s veins. He's still twinkling at her, and she can't begin to fathom how he's managed to look even _more_ fond. “I think we both deserve something sweet after the morning we’ve had, don’t we? Well. Something sweet that we aren’t accidentally wearing, anyway.”

Is that an innuendo? Is he...innuendo-ing at her?

Ooooh dear. 

“Yeah, I,” she gulps. “I could change, too, but...I mean, I’m in food service, there’s no...point…” He’s so gorgeous it’s like...it’s like...she has nothing to compare it to. He is just _that_ stunning.

Marinette doesn’t realize that she’s standing between his calves until he reaches for her wrist again. Their skin adheres together. She’s still sticky from the frappuccino. 

The air grows charged. Marinette almost asks why he’s touching her again, except that might prompt him to _stop_ touching her, and she has never, ever wanted someone to touch her more in her entire life. 

“You’ve, uh, got...a bit...on your face,” she blurts out, fingers moving of their own accord to trace the pink and purple splatters decorating his cheekbones. His eyes flutter shut, and he sighs into her palm, nuzzling it. He hums low and tranquil, almost like a purr.

Oh _god._ The urge to lean in and capture that sighing mouth with her own and just...knock him back onto those sofa cushions and ride him like the cowgirl in that _terrible_ horse flick he did two years ago is so strong that her thighs start trembling.

...so of course she jerks back like she’s touched a cattle fence instead, because this is Adrien Agreste, on her couch, and--and--and--what is she DOING?--

\--breath catches in Adrien’s throat as he returns to himself, and _his_ guilt is so tangible that even though she’s spent a grand total of twenty-three minutes in his company, she knows she should have just let this moment play out. Why does _he_ look guilty? _She_ was the one having cowgirl thoughts.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what that was.”

“I didn’t--it wasn’t--I just--” she begins, but that’s when thunder in human form comes pounding down the stairs, accompanied by the deafening sounds of Slim C’s latest track.

Nino.

Oh _god,_ **_Nino is still upstairs._ **

“Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck,” Nino is growling as he charges toward her. “Marinette,” he says, grabbing her shoulder with the hand not clutching his noisy phone. “I forgot about Alya’s birthday. My _fiance's birthday;_ I'm the _worst_. We were supposed to go to lunch together; we have reservations for eleven, across the river, and--I don’t remember _booking_ it _;_ I don’t even have a gift for her. _Fuck._ Mari, I’m so sorry! I need to go!”

“Oh, yeah, I...I forgot too,” Marinette says, utterly dazed. “Just--I got her something; it’s on my bed. So give...give her that. Say it’s from both of us.”

“Oh thank god, THANK YOU,” he spins on his heel and dashes back up to her room, leaving Marinette between Adrien’s legs and awash in painful, pregnant muteness. He reappears two seconds later with the present in-hand and his phone mashed to his ear. “Yeah, yeah,” he says loudly. “No, ‘course I didn’t forget, I’m on my w--yeah, Mari knew, for sure, totally, she’s set--I _didn’t forget,_ okay…?” He presses a kiss to Marinette’s forehead as he zips toward the front door, slamming it hard behind him. A picture falls off the wall.

He hadn’t even acknowledged Adrien’s presence.

A quiet, thready chuckle escapes from Adrien’s throat, and he gingerly twists himself off the sofa, freeing Marinette of his bracketing ankles. 

“I suppose that’s my cue,” he says weakly.

“Sorry about him, he's...my flatmate,” Marinette says at length. “But...yeah, I...I’d better...go do my job. I mean, I just left the register unmanned and everything. And I'm sure--I'm sure you're tired of being stuck with _me,_ I mean...you're...” She shrugs uselessly. "You know. Important."

" _Everyone_ is important," He peers up at her through his fringe, almost shy. “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to...um.”

“No, no! I’ve been freaked out all day,” Marinette says, but the statement doesn’t adequately express what she means. “That--isn’t how it sounds. I mean, it’s _me_ freaking out; it isn’t your fault, I just…” She bites her lip, willing her pointless mouth to listen to her brain for once. “I wasn’t...expecting you.”

"No," he says. "You couldn't have, could you? I'm really sorry, again."

He smooths his hair down and squares his shoulders. "Right! To the bakery?"Adrien's suddenly gone so stiff and courteous that Marinette’s entire heart breaks in her chest. It's the weirdest thing she's ever seen: it's like someone else has inhabited his body, like the guy that had just been perched on her sofa has been body-snatched. He even manages to make his _eyes_ look different. How does he do that? What kind of muscle control must he have to be able to manipulate his own face that way?

“Hey, no, don’t--I’m not going back to work because I don’t want to be around you,” she says softly, reaching for him, but he isn’t anywhere near close enough to reach, and she doesn’t dare invade his bubble again. “I mean, if I’m not at the register and stuff, who’s going to sell you your brioche, right?”

He puts on that terrible fake smile, and he holds her own door open for her. 

\--

The rest of their interaction passes in a hushed daze. 

When Adrien crosses through the bakery doors again, he’s immediately whisked into a black car by the bodyguard she hadn’t even realized must’ve been waiting outside for him since he’d arrived. 

Marinette wonders, again, if she’s dreamt the whole terrible thing.

\--

The shop closes at 4 p.m., and Marinette doesn’t think she’s ever been happier to be latching the lock than she is this day. Alya is picking up pizza, which means Marinette doesn’t have to cook, and according to Nino, she’s in a great mood, which means the evening will be pleasant and mellow. Marinette definitely needs that; she is a hot mess. Her insides have been in knots since Adrien left, and she isn’t entirely sure why. It isn’t like anything was ever going to happen with them; whatever that thing by the sofa had been, she was sure she’d just imagined it. He couldn’t _possibly_ be disappointed that she hadn’t continued doing whatever it was she was doing to his cheek. Or...what he was doing to her hand. Or...who did what to who, again? What had happened? Why can she still _smell him?_

Everything is one massive fuck-up in her head. He’s a famous person that she spilled coffee all over. They hadn’t had a _moment,_ much less a disappointing one. She’s nobody. He’s Adrien fucking Agreste. He probably hasn’t spared another thought for her all day.

She wonders if he’s still wearing her shirt. It hadn’t fit him properly; he’d probably taken it off the moment he had the chance. Of course he had. Of _course._

Holy shit.

She gave him her _shirt._

It _was_ a moment.

They’d had a _moment._

A moment she ended.

She _rejected_ Adrien Agreste.

“Marinette, you’ll never guess who is doing a _book signing_ across the street tomorrow,” Alya is saying as Marinette gnaws robotically on a length of crust. “And I’ve got press passes, too, if you want to tag along.”

Marinette goes, “Hmm…?” because the last thing she wants to hear about is a famous person.

“Chloe Bourgeois! _Ladybug,_ girl!” Alya cries. She holds her hands out in offering, waiting for a reaction.

Marinette doesn’t offer one. “Hmm.”

“Hello? Anybody home?” Alya plants fists on her curvy hips. “I just said Chloe Bourgeois is doing a book signing across the street from _our house_ tomorrow morning and I’m inviting you to come with me to see her.”

“Ah, yeah,” Marinette sighs, picturing the way Adrien’s face had gone ashen white when she’d jerked away from him. “Have fun.” 

“Okay. Spit it out. What’s got you so messed up? Nino said you’ve been super weird ever since some influencer came by this morning,” she presses, leaning over to pluck Marinette’s rapidly soggening pizza remnant out of her mouth. Alya grimaces at it as she drops it in the bin. “Is this about _that guy_ that was up here before lunch rush?”

“What?” The glass of wine at Marinette’s elbow is narrowly saved from suffering the wrath of her errant elbow due only to Alya’s lightning-fast reflexes. “There was no guy. Ever. In my life. I have never touched a man, or seen a man, or breathed a man’s air.”

“Um, out of the two of us, who is the only person who’s ever been married _to a man_ before?”

“...okay, I was exaggerating a little.”

“Nino said you had some blond guy on the couch before he left to see me. You’d like, abandoned the register and everything.”  
“Oh, uh…” Marinette swallows. “That was just...just...a customer. I kind of...spilled coffee all over them, so I’d brought them in to use the bathroom to wash up.”

“Oh,” Alya deflates in disappointment, mischief replaced with concern. “Well, _that’s_ less sexy than I’d anticipated.” 

Marinette moans and buries her face in her arms. Alya moves to rub her back.

“Sorry, Alya,” she sighs, muffled by onesie fabric. “He’s right, I did have kind of a hard day. I’m sorry to do this on your birthday.” She sniffles. 

“Oh, stop, I’ve had a _great_ day, so now I’m _all yours,_ ” Alya grins. “You’re just working too much. I told Nino you were gonna burn out soon.”

“I’m not burning out. Would a burnout...er...er remember to make you a special cupcake?” Marinette says. “It’s waiting for you in the fridge. It’s lemon.”

“Dude, you are _clearly_ a ‘burnout-er-er.’ She likes orange best,” Nino insists back, mouth full of pizza. Marinette shoots a glare at him; it isn’t fair that he always takes Alya’s side when she’s doing that thing where she’s absolutely right about something Marinette doesn’t want to acknowledge.

SNAP! goes Alya. “I know what will cheer you right up. Get off that stool, come on.” 

She tugs Marinette over to the sofa, swaddling her in a paw-printed snuggie and pressing the entire wine bottle into her hands. She doesn’t bother with a glass.

“Ugh, _no,_ not again, you two,” Nino whines, grabbing an entire pizza box for himself as he begins the treck to his and Alya’s room. “I’m gonna go play Earthlock with Kim.”

“I’m only allowing you to leave because you’re throwing me that surprise party on Saturday,” Alya says sagely.  
“No I’m not,” Nino lies.

Marinette groans. “Alya, I’m not really in the mood--”

“You are _always_ in the mood for _Ladybug,_ ” Alya laughs at her, swapping Spotify for Netflix. 

Marinette begins to protest, but when Adrien’s snarling, beautiful, black-masked face appears on-screen, the words die on her lips. All of her three remaining brain cells shrivel up and die on the spot. He looks very young here, and somewhat incomplete; the first _Miraculous_ film is eight years old now, after all, and the fact that she now possesses that knowledge first-hand slams into her like a lorry into a Honda Civic.

Alya mistakes her shellshock for chill.

“There we go,” Alya grins, settling herself comfortably with her head in Marinette’s lap.

\--

_...the rooftops of London are awash in cloud-dimmed moonlight, and the cold winter air shimmers with falling snow as the camera pans across the battered forms of our two heroes._

_Ladybug cradles Chat Noir’s body in her bloodied arms, and he reaches up weakly to trace her pale, tear-streaked cheek with his sharp-tipped fingers._

_“That was clawfully stupid, Chat Noir,” Ladybug whispers, jerking reflexively away from his hand before it can smear another patch of blood across her face._

\--

Marinette’s palm tingles.

She winces.

\--

_“You know you don’t have to sacrifice yourself for me every single time we fight.”_

_“That pun was_ cat- _astrophic, Bugaboo,” he murmurs. “Quit while you’re ahead.”_

_“I wish you’d take your own advice. I had everything under control before you threw yourself in front of that blast.”_

_“Come on, m’lady. What else am I meant for?” he laughs weakly, before his entire body heaves with the force of a wet cough._

_A black butterfly lands on the chimney stacks opposite, just as Chat’s Miraculous begins beeping._

_“How can you not understand your worth, Cat?” Ladybug weeps, head falling to rest on Chat’s chest. “We are one half of a whole. Without you, I’m...I’m just a fragment.”_

_His ring flashes its last green light as his eyes lose focus behind his mask._

_“Chat, what are you doing?” Ladybug gasps, shaking him. “Chat! I-I’ll see your face, you can’t--”_

_“Take the ring,” he coughs wetly. “You know who to pass it on to.”_

_“No! Chat! Don’t--please don’t leave me!”_

_The butterfly spreads its wings._

_\--_

“I can’t believe how great his English is,” Alya sighs. “And those abs. Can you imagine licking them?”

“He’s not an _object,_ Alya! Anyway, I like it better when he speaks French,” Marinette mutters, staring hard at Adrien’s face, and definitely _not_ his stomach.

\--

_Chat Noir’s breath comes ragged now as his chest quakes with the force of his stuttering heartbeat. “I know you can’t accept it. But I want to look at you with my own eyes.”_

_“You can! Tomorrow. You can see me tomorrow. We--we’ll meet for patrol, just like we always do, on the hands of Big Ben--”_

_Chat’s head falls back. “If I’ve ever loved anything, Ladybug, it’s you.” A pause. “It’s_ you. _”_

\--

Marinette chokes on a sob.

\--

_The city continues around them, uncaring._

_Green light fills the screen, blanking everything out, before the camera zooms in on his reflection in Ladybug’s mask._

_“No,” her voice grinds. “No! Chat, I’m closing my eyes. I don’t want to see you. This is a REALLY terrible way for a reveal to happen.” Snow begins to build up in her hair. “Chat?”_

_She shakes him. “Okay, so this has all been...a ploy! Yeah, to...to finally reveal your identity. Very funny. That’s fine, you’re just...playing a prank. Ha. Ha...ha. You--you’re playing a prank on me.” She shakes him again. “Stop playing now. Stop it.”_

_She gives him one last jerk, and his hand flops sideways, ring rolling past his knuckle and coming to a stop against the opposite wall. The sound prompts her to crack her eyelids ever so slightly, before shutting them tightly once more._ _  
__“Please don’t leave me,” she begs him again. “Please.”_

_She still refuses to look at him, because something in her knows she is about to witness her worst, deepest fear._

_In her arms lies the broken, greying body of Felix Graham De Vanily._

\--

“Are you crying?” Alya blinks at her. “Dude, you know she discovers her healing powers like three seconds after this. He’s gonna be fine.”

“He just loves her so much,” Marinette weeps into her tissue. “And she just--just--wasted _all of that time with him._ Chat is so sweet and funny and dumb, and she--just--ig _nores_ him!”

“But--Marinette, once she realizes he’s _Felix--_ ”

“Does it even matter? Because then, and _then_ , and then they erase their memories in the next movie,” Marinette hiccups, “and they have to find each other all over again, ex-except-except then Bridgette gets akumatized, but Felix doesn’t _know,_ and Felix thinks she _hates_ him, and they spend the whole movie fighting, and _then_ in the third one, we _think_ everything is okay, but she goes and makes a deal with _Hawkmoth--_ ”

“Marinette, _chill,_ ” Alya pets her hair. 

“And Felix’s dad is such a prick, I bet he never feeds him, he’s so _skinny--_ ”

She tugs the empty bottle out of Marinette’s death grip. “Hmm, maybe let’s _not_ buy this wine again.”

“--and he’s so _alone,_ ” Marinette cries. “He’s so beautiful and he’s so alone!”

“Whoa, Marinette--”

“I mean look at that face!” Marinette points a shaky finger tv-ward. “Who couldn’t love Chat Noir? What is _wrong_ with them? Ladybug is so STUPID. She’s so DUMB.”

“O-kay,” Alya flicks the remote’s trackpad, and the screen goes dark. “I have never seen you get this upset at a superhero movie before.”

“Adrien is just so gorgeous,” Marinette wails drunkenly, squashing her salty-wet face into the arm of the couch. “He’s so sweet and nice and _wonderful_ , Alya. It’s just not _fair._ ”

\--

Google News is not particularly kind to Adrien the next morning. He scrolls through the headlines with a sigh, trying not to focus on the most insulting of the lot. The thing from the Vuitton boutique is particularly damning, as he knew it would be; of _course_ he’d had to book a special visit before the store opened, because he basically can’t go anywhere without being _mobbed,_ he isn’t some spoiled asshole making unreasonable demands, and he _wasn’t_ a demon to the cashier; the cashier tried to take a picture of him in the dressing room and that just isn’t _okay,_ and why Adrien is being vilified for saying so makes literally zero sense. Of course, the photo thing isn’t mentioned in the article. All it talks about is how he makes shop girls _cry._

God, he’s going to get an earful from his father for this, which is damned hypocritical, since Gabriel Agreste has basically made watery messes of every person he’s ever met. 

Adrien hates paparazzi. He really hates them. He’s starting to hate _all_ reporters.

“Adrien,” Nathalie, his hand-me-down assistant and surrogate mother figure, calls from the suite’s kitchen. “Stop Googling yourself.”

“Sorry, Nathalie,” Adrien sighs, setting his phone aside. He kicks the heavy duvet off himself, wearily dragging himself to his feet. He untwists the t-shirt from around his middle; it’s so tight it’s ridden up his ribcage during the night.

Selfishly, he’d like to keep it; it’s a really cool vintage shirt, the sort that sells for upwards of $50 in the bougier vintage shops on Melrose. It isn’t his, though, as he’s almost painfully aware, despite the fact that Bakery Girl had insisted otherwise.

Her scent is heavy on the cheap cotton blend, because it obviously isn’t freshly laundered...which might (read: should) gross him out if it wasn’t so lovely: the warmth of the bakery, heavy vanilla, her houseplants, and the unmistakable, _utterly ridiculous_ gourmand childishness that is _Adrien: The Fragrance._ He hasn’t smelled it for years; he was only a tween when they’d formulated the stuff, and that was precisely the demographic it was marketed to. Somehow, though, on Marinette, it...works. 

That shouldn’t make his extremities tingle the way it does, but...well. Adrien likes to be adored. He couldn’t do what he does if he didn’t. And man, he’ll take awkward fangirls any day over vultures.

...but then again, Bakery Girl hadn’t seemed to adore him, particularly. Nervousness is something he’s used to, but not Marinette’s brand, especially not when contrasted with how kind and self-assured she’d been with that little boy. In fact, he’d made her downright uneasy, which had become _painfully_ obvious when he’d...ugh...when he’d come on to her. God, what had he been thinking, anyway?

He’s convinced he’s really upset her, which doesn’t sit well with him. Chloe would certainly never stress over smacking into and then subsequently hitting on a random stranger. In fact, she’d probably make the whole story into a romantic, late-night anecdote for Alec Cataldi.

“Nathalie, do I have any free time at all this week?” he calls, reluctantly stripping away the t-shirt. He doesn’t want to send it back with a courier; it’s so impersonal. There are so many nice things he could do to make up for all the trouble he’s caused her.

...and she wasn’t lying about the brioche. It was the best he’s ever tasted. Surely he owes her something for that, too.

Nathalie appears in his doorway, already dressed in a crisp blue suit, face fully made up, and breakfasted. She can’t have slept more than three hours last night. Adrien wishes he could impress upon her that he does _not_ have the same demands for her that his father always does.

“You have three hours open on Thursday morning, between eleven and one,” she says. “Do you have something in mind?”

Her eyes slide pointedly toward the wadded-up t-shirt on his bed.

No point hiding _anything_ from Nathalie, ever, and it’s a relief that he doesn’t have to. “Yeah, if that’s okay?”

She tosses him her phone. “I dug her number up last night. Make it quick; we’ve got to be out of here in half an hour.”

\--

The morning rush isn’t just a rush; it’s practically a hurricane. Of course the only day Marinette has taken off in an actual month is the one where Nino’s slammed, without backup. 

He’s got seventeen people in line, and is currently filling an order involving a dozen different pastries, when the bakery’s business phone rings.

The business phone _never_ rings. 

_Oh great, just what I need,_ he thinks, growling. He grabs it, simultaneously trying to remember whether the woman he’s serving wanted six strawberry macarons and five macha, or if it’s the other way around.

“What?” he says into the ancient handset, not really thinking about what he’s saying. God, it’s even got a _cord_ attached, which of course he immediately gets tangled up in. Seriously, how unlucky is he?

“Oh, uh--sorry, is this _Le Boulangerie Pattisserie?”_ someone asks in a very civil baritone. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, we’re swamped at the moment,” Nino says hurriedly, trying to stop a seven year old from creeping behind his counter. Oh god, it’s Thomas. The kid is pure trouble. Nino tries swatting him with a stray towel. “Astruc, go wait with your mom. No cutting in line today.”

“Aaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwww,” Thomas whines.

“Um, I’ll keep it short, then--” phone person says, “--can you have Marinette call Adrien at the Ritz? Um, but, make sure she asks for Sailor Venus.” 

Fuckssake.

“Kim? Is this you, you jerk?--sorry, Madame Lahcen--Does it sound like I have time for prank calls?” Nino hisses. 

“No, but this isn’t a prank, I’m Ad--”

“Okay. Fine. Call Adella at the Ritz, ask for a sailor. Are we done?” Nino says, trying to simultaneously load up his pastry box and stop Thomas from sticking his fingers into an eclair. “Um, Madame Astruc? Can you come grab Thomas?” He shoots an apologetic look at Mademoiselle Eight Million Cookies. “Sorry, Mademoiselle Moncre, nearly ready--” Oh, shit. No they’re not, because there goes his box of macarons; he’d left it too close to the edge of the counter. He hopes the floor appreciates the snack, because now nobody else is going to.

“Um, it’s--it’s Adrien,” the guy on the phone repeats lamely. “At the Ritz. And she needs to ask for Sailor Venus, or they won’t put the call through.”

“You know what, Adrien at the Ritz? I’ll have her call you _right away_ . Bye-bye,” Nino says, genuinely irritated. If this kid thinks it’s funny to crank yank while Nino is having the busiest morning of his life, he doesn’t care if Sailor Venus is actually _Adrien fucking Agreste,_ he’s not getting any more time out of Nino. He slams the phone down in it’s cradle just as Mama Astruc finally retrieves her wayward son. 

Of course, he can’t remember what macaron woman actually wanted now, so he just shoves like seven extra cookies into the box and hopes that makes up for the lack of accuracy. He _really_ hopes Juleka shows up early today.

\--

Nino completely forgets about the prank call, because the rush doesn’t ease ‘til 1 p.m. He can’t even stop for a lunch break. How does Mari do this every single day?

\--

The sun is painful as it cuts across the peeling pink walls of Marinette’s room. Has she ever been this hungover? She used to be able to properly party; she had a wild phase like every good, self-respecting fashion student. Now, though, she’s pretty sure her liver has resigned. It’s probably sipping retirement martinis in Ibiza with a cute pool boy named Armando right now, and filtering the alcohol out of itself just fine without her.

She’s really grateful Nino is covering for her today, is even _more_ grateful for the soup pot Alya left on her bedside table, and completely, utterly, infuriatingly re-infatuated with Adrien Agreste.

She’s also so angry at this _jerk_ that wrote the article about the Louis Vuitton store she could spit. The Agreste she met isn’t even capable of making a shop girl cry; she’d ruined almost three thousand euro worth of his clothing, and in retaliation, he’d...he’d pressed his cheek into her hand, and broke his diet for some of her dad’s brioche.

A raging, three-page letter to the editor chastising them for writing what she considers heinous slander has formed in the notebook on her lap. Re-reading it, she is almost ill with emotion. She’s regressed fifteen years. She’s acting like a child. Hungover, love-struck by someone she hardly knows, slacking off. What the hell has gotten into her?

Crumpling up the letter, she tosses it into a corner, and tries willing herself back to reality.

Adrien Agreste is a fantasy.

No point dwelling on fantasies.

\--

Thursday morning comes and goes without a call from Bakery Girl.

Adrien still can’t bring himself to send back the shirt.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

\--

As the week draws to a close, Marinette’s life returns to normal, thus marking the restoration of her (relative) sanity. 

Saturday morning begins as it often does: croissants go into the oven, Nino sleepily grinds the coffee beans, and Alya sits beside the sink to check her emails. The sun is sleeping in; the sky is pink and gold, thick with what is going to be a thunderstorm by mid-afternoon. The sidewalks are slick with last night’s rain, still shimmering coppery grey under the last light of the sodium lamps. 

She has begun piping strawberry macarons when the phone rings. 

Marinette doesn’t recognize the sound at first, because she’s so unused to hearing it, _especially_ at four in the morning, but then she realizes what it is when Nino answers. 

“ _Boulangerie Patisserie_ ,” he says. “We bake ‘em, you eat ‘em.”

“Really, Nino?” Alya sighs, as Marinette giggles into her gloved hand. 

“Hey,” Nino’s head appears in the doorway a few seconds later. “I have a guy on the line. I think he tried calling on, like, Tuesday, but--” Nino grins a little guiltily. “I kinda forgot to write it down, ‘cuz he called during the rush.”

Marinette harrumphs fondly at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Again?”

“Well,” Nino shrugs guiltily. “You know how it is when the mornings get crazy.” He offers quite a weak grin indeed. “Uh. I may have also thought he was Kim. And I might’ve...hung up on him.”

“Ack. Okay. But if he wants some massive order ready in fifteen minutes, _you’re_ manning the register,” she winks at him, giving his hair an _almost_ friendly and definitely not annoyed ruffle, taking the ancient handset from him. He has the good sense to look properly chastised. 

“Hello?”

“Marinette. Hi.” 

She’s still holding the strawberry meringue. She squeezes it so hard it splatters all over her face, the walls, the pastry case, and Alya.

“Agh!” Alya cries. “Mari _nette._ ”

“Sorry,” Marinette gasps, dropping the bag like it’s burned her. Then she rounds on Nino, who has MORTALLY WOUNDED HER. “This is NOT. KIM.” 

Alya sighs, picking at her shirt, and hops off the counter, making for the stairwell.

“ _Hello…?”_ comes the tinny, distant baritone from the speaker, and Marinette has to give herself a shake.

“Um. Hello,” her voice is tiny, just a little mouse meep. “Hey. Nino--Nino said you called.”

“Ah, the flatmate with the birthday crisis. You work together too?”

“Wow, you’re, like, _amazing_ with names. Yeah, we. Um. We do. Though maybe not for much longer, because as you KNOW FIRSTHAND, he’s got _terrible phone etiquette_.” She shoots Nino quite a furious look indeed. Nino recoils with a wince. 

Adrien’s little laugh still manages to ring like bells, even over their terrible connection. “Well, I was a bit surprised when he called me a jerk the other day.”

“He _what_?!!” She picks up her empty pastry bag and chucks it straight at Nino’s face. “I’LL KILL YOU,” she snarls.

Nino grabs the push broom and straight up runs away.

“I’m sorry to call so early now, but...I wanted to avoid making things difficult again. I expected to leave a message, honestly,” he says apologetically. 

“Well, bakers do have pretty crazy hours,” she bites her lip. “We...we get most of our last-minute orders really early, so…”

There is an awkward pause. 

“Nino is fired.” Marinette decides, speaking more to herself than to anyone else. “I’m going to fire him.”

“No, don’t do that. To be fair, I should’ve realized it wasn’t the _greatest_ idea, calling during the morning rush. He thought I was pranking. And, well, I thought, maybe...um…” He is silent for a few moments. “I thought maybe _that_ was why you hadn’t called back?”

It’s such a hopeful little question, like he _wanted_ her to call back. Like he was waiting for her to call back.

Marinette squeaks.

“...maybe, you know, you’d just sort of. I don’t know. Had it with me,” he laughs heartily now, in pure self-deprecation. 

“Had it with you…?” Marinette stares, unseeing, at the tiled wall. “No! I--he never told me you’d called. I’m so sorry!”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Adrien insists. “I’m not some self-obsessed weirdo that steals innocent people’s clothing or anything. I mean, not _usually._ Sometimes I steal stuff from the sets; I--I still wear my Chat ring.” He laughs. “Sorry, that was oversharing. Listen, um. I promised I’d make it up to you, so.” He takes a breath. “Can I?”

“Can _you_ make it up to _me_ ?” Marinette moans. “I was _ghosting_ you! And I didn’t even _realize_ it!”

“It wasn’t ghosting,” Something bubbles up on Adrien’s end of the line might actually be a giggle. “I was hoping, at best, _maybe_ you were playing hard to get.”

“Hard to get…” Her brain is automatically transported to Hamster Space. (Hamster Space is the fantasy cooked up by her fourteen-year-old brain where she is married to Adrien. Sometimes she’s a famous designer, and Adrien is her muse; sometimes he’s a teacher, and they live in Nice. Either way, they always have a daughter named Emma, and a hamster named Loneliness.) “What would ‘at _worst’_ be?”

“I don’t know,” Adrien is thoughtful. “Hmm. Maybe...some heinously self-entitled famous man you’ve never met before steals your clothes, and...he tries to kiss you on your sofa...your husband is terribly jealous, so...he takes the story to the tabloids, which you _completely_ condone, because you hate creepy jerks like me, and you subsequently...throw up on the spot any time you see his face on a billboard. Which, as you know, is all the time.” 

“I’m divorced, actually.”  
Now why the _hell_ did she go and say that? She smacks herself, immediately regretting her entire life.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. He was too.” Marinette only has two seconds to mentally kick herself black and blue before her brain completely shuts down. “You...you wanted to kiss me?”

Adrien is quiet. “Well. I hope that would actually be part of the best-case scenario, but you can’t be a great actor without a sense of imagination. I’m covering all my bases.”

She tries to process that. She can’t. “Well, I. Uh. I mean. Seems to me a ‘great sense of imagination’ is synonymous with ‘overthinking.’”

Adrien laughs again. “Is it?”

“Yes,” she says firmly, and she swallows. “I’m not criticizing you, of course.”

“You’re not?”

“I’d never.”  
“Well, _that’s_ boring. You can’t just let me do whatever I want all the time, can you? I could get myself into trouble.” She can hear his cheeky grin; it stretches his vowels and puts a funny little wobble in his words. It’s his Chat voice.

Her stomach bubbles.

“I don’t mind trouble,” she says, so of course her next move is to strangle herself with the phone cord in sheer mortification.

“You must not, since you’re still talking to me.” He goes all warm as he says it, fondness smudging the edge of each consonant. “Listen, I’m really busy today, but I have about three-quarters of an hour open around three. There’s a little place around the corner from the hotel; Camille’s. Have you heard of it?”

It’s like the entire world shrinks down to the plastic receiver in her hands. Camille’s isn’t _‘a little place around the corner;’_ it’s a members-only tapas bar and lounge for famous people and _literally no one else_ . She’s lived in Paris all her life and she still has no idea where it is, only that it _might_ exist _._ You can’t see the bouncers, because they hide in the shadows. Normal people don’t even try to _find_ it, much less grab a drink with an acquaintance there on a random rainy Saturday. Nobody can sign up to be a member; you have to be invited, and before you can actually join, you have to sign a legally binding confidentiality clause _._ When Marinette was married to Luka, he knew one of the waitstaff. They weren’t even allowed to talk about what their uniforms looked like. They had to change _at the lounge_ because they didn’t want paparazzi to track their _waiters._ They had their phones confiscated every time they entered through the back door. A guy got fired once because he didn’t know Marion Cottillard’s preferences, and offered her malbec instead of cabernet. 

...and Adrien Agreste wants to _take her there._

“I’m going to die,” she says.

“Please don’t do that before you try their house tempranillo. You can’t even get it in Heaven.”

“I--” Marinette’s brain seethes like a wildfire. “--I. Is it expensive?”

“Yes,” Adrien beams; she can picture him doing it. “And it’s on me. What do you say?”

“Oh my god,” she starts jumping up and down. It’s slow at first, but the bouncing gets faster and faster and higher and higher as the seconds tick on. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Yes! YES! YES YES _YES_!”

“Okay! Great!” He--holy crap, he actually sounds excited. Excited to see _her._ “Do you mind meeting me at the hotel? You know where the Ritz is, yeah? Can you be there at 2:50-ish? I’d pick you up, of course, but it really is a busy day for me.”

“I would give my left foot to meet you at your hotel!” she practically screams. 

“I have my own, thank you, but yours _is_ much prettier,” Adrien breezes. “Right. So, at the desk ask for Sailor Venus, alright? They’ll send you straight up.”

“I _love_ Sailor Moon!” she cries, still bouncing.

“Oh, cool! Me too!”

“ _Neat!_ ”

“ _So_ neat.”

“See you at 2:50-ish!”

“On the dot,” he says. “Oop, gotta go, my stylist’s here--okay. See you later, Princess-- _okay,_ Nathalie, I’m _coming_ , sorry--” 

_Click_ goes the line. 

CRASH! goes Marinette, because she’s now so thoroughly ensnarled in the phone cord, she can’t actually get to the phone cradle to hang up.

\--

“That didn’t sound like a customer,” Nino says carefully as he helps detangle her. It’s the least he can do. 

“It wasn’t,” Marinette grunts at him. “I’m taking a half-day, and _you’re_ covering me.”

Nino grins sheepishly. “You got it, lady.”

She giggles. Yeah, she freaking does.

\--

It isn’t that interviews are terrible and he hates them or anything, except for sometimes, which is now, when he does. Currently, he’s in the middle of something for Buzzfeed, and they’re having him taste a bunch of random novelty candy from around the world, and he’s not sure what that has to do with _Ladybug,_ but at least it tastes good.

...well, except for the thing that looks like dirt. The dirt stuff is terrible. It might actually _be_ dirt.

“Oh, it’s in my _teeth,_ ” wails Chloe, digging between her molars with her sharp, dangerous pinkie nail. “Oh my god, Johnny, why are you doing this to us?”

The crew laugh at her, and coo as Adrien passes her his Gabriel handkerchief to spit into. They get more hits on the videos when he does cute little romantic things like this, and normally Chloe eats it up. Instead of simpering at him like she normally does, she pushes his hand away with an “ew, no, I don’t know where that’s been!,” because she’s tired and hungover from whatever she and Xavier got up to last night. They’ve already been at this for _six hours_ today, though, so he doesn’t begrudge her for it. Looking like they hate each other is good for traffic too, after all.

Johnny, the interviewer, surprises them by bringing out the six year old mastermind that apparently thought up the candy-themed bit, and he’s darling. Adrien doesn’t mind the interview quite as much knowing that it was dreamed up by one of his fans, because really, the little kids are the best part of captaining a superhero franchise, but he’s not quite as warm and perfect-older-brother-y as he would normally be. They were supposed to have wrapped all of this up ages ago, but from what Nathalie says, they’ve got at least six or seven more rounds to go. It isn’t viral content, at least; those interviews are always the most taxing, so he has a _bit_ of peace to look forward to. If Lila Rossi, the snake from _Voici,_ hadn’t somehow weaseled her way into an extra _forty-seven minutes_ of camera time with them, a feat that is practically unheard of, they might be somewhere close to on-schedule, but he really has the worst luck. His identity does seem to be mirroring Chat Noir’s more and more everyday. 

...at least he isn’t in love with _Chloe_. Lord.

The interview wraps, and the lights switch off.

“Oh thank fuck, I’m done for at _least_ fifteen,” Chloe announces, dropping her candy wrappers on the floor and shaking out her hair. “I’m going for a smoke.”

“That’s fine, Chloe,” her assistant, Sabrina, says, rushing to pick up her mess. “It’s all solo stuff after this; you can--”

“I _know my schedule,_ Sabrina,” Chloe says, breezing past her. “Have them set up in my room. It’s too stuffy in here; it’s ruining my blow-out.”

Adrien can’t say she’s wrong; it really is, and Chloe’s face does benefit from that extra bit of volume. It’s a hot, stormy day, and the humidity in the crowded conference room is pretty stifling.

He glances at his watch and sighs. He’s supposed to be meeting Marinette in twenty minutes. He’s going to have to cancel on her.

“Nathalie,” he calls, after a quick, polite goodbye and thank-you to the Buzzfeed people, “hey. Um, can you call the bakery and let her know we’re going to need to cancel?”

Nathalie hears the disappointment in his voice, and gives him a very brief little elbow squeeze. “Of course, Adrien. We’ll try and hurry everyone along, though. I might be able to cancel the dinner with Antoine…?”

“No, don’t,” Adrien waves her off. “Just push it forward a bit.” He can’t blow off professional responsibilities for cute girls, after all. He’s not a child. “Maybe I’ll stop by and see her tomorrow morning.”

“We’re filming for _Orange_ tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah,” he sags. “Okay, nevermind. Just--it’s okay.”

Nathalie looks like she wants to hug him. She isn’t a hugger, though.

After a few moments of deliberation, they decide to move everyone back to their rooms. They won’t be needing the cameras now; it’s all mags and print after this, and he’s been promised no more photo-ops, so they might as well keep everyone comfortable. He likes the magazine interviews, generally, the one-on-ones; he doesn’t have to be quite so _on,_ and sometimes the better journalists are genuinely nice to talk to. 

His room is blessedly cool. He takes a few minutes to gulp down some water and pop an aspirin, and then he settles himself in one of the plush armchairs, resetting himself.

Okay. Yes. On with the show.  
G is with him now; Nathalie and the publicists will be ushering along the journalists waiting in the hall. 

“I’m ready, G,” he sighs, and tries not to think about the little gift bag containing Marinette’s freshly laundered shirt burning a hole on its closet shelf.

G nods at him, and shoots Nathalie a text.

Nathalie cracks his door a few moments later, and she’s wearing the strangest expression. She looks almost...conspiratorial.

“Alya Cesaire is here from _L'agriculteur Progressiste_ ,” Nathalie says, and--and she’s _smirking._

“ _The Progressive Farmer_?” Adrien goggles. “What, the--the magazine about...tractors, and stuff?”

“Very much so,” Nathalie says. She turns around to face whoever this Alya person is. “Right this way, Madame.”

Adrien actually drops his phone.

In walks Marinette Dupain-Cheng, carrying a huge box of pastries, dressed to the nines in a slinky black shoulderless shift dress and sparkling red stockings. She’s--she’s also drenched in rain.

She is absolutely stunning. 

“I forgot my umbrella,” she says, staring at him in glazed, utter _terror,_ like a shell-shocked soldier pulled fresh from the trenches.

“Well, _he_ llo, Alya,” Adrien says, and he can’t contain his dopey, sunshiney grin. “I had no idea that France’s farmers were so interested in superheroes.”

“Well, uh,” Marinette says, “um. Ladybugs...are a great...alternative...to pesticides.”

“G?” Nathalie says from behind Marinette’s back, “Can you help me with something in the hall?”

Adrien’s bodyguard grunts, and Nathalie shuts the door behind them with immense self-satisfaction.

\--

Adrien bursts into laughter: huge, bellowing guffaws accompanied by little delighted kicks of his feet and much clutching of his stomach. At one point he chokes, sputtering into a coughing fit, but he takes one look at her and starts cackling again.

Marinette wants to die.

“What on Earth--” Adrien wipes tears from his eyes. “ _How...?”_

“I have no idea!” Marinette melts into a puddle on the chair opposite. “I--I left the house early, because, you know, the rain slows everything down, but then the bus I was on broke down, so I had to hail a cab, but then he dropped me off at the wrong entrance, and I had to--I got lost--” She pushes hair out of her face. How her makeup has survived at all is a scientific mystery. “It’s so _rainy._ And then, I found the lobby, and--and I told the receptionist, you know, I was here to see Sailor Venus, but...this woman with an ear piece _grabbed_ me and she was like, ‘ _You’re late,’_ and--she stabbed me with _this--_ ” she displays her press badge, which has been very poorly pinned to her chest, as he can now see “--and some reporter in the elevator was, she was so _pushy;_ she wanted to know who the pastries were for, and I told them they were for my grandmother in the hospital, and she was like, ‘which hospital?’ and I was like, ‘why are you so curious about my trauma?’ and...she was all over me...I don’t know, it was super weird...and then they put me in this room with a bunch of _other_ reporters, and they asked me which magazine I was from, and I told them--I couldn’t think of anything else; there was a copy in the car…it all happened so fast; I would’ve just told them who I am, but--I was afraid, you know...I didn’t think it was a good idea to be some random floozy in this--this ridiculous dress showing up to your room with all those reporters oozing out of the walls--”

“Marinette.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s okay. It’s _amazing._ ”

Her mouth snaps shut, and she goes rigid.

Rain trickles down her cheek.

She is utterly adorable.

“So. Is Alya Nino’s fiance?” Adrien grins. 

“Yeah...how do you remember names like that? That’s like, superhuman _,_ ” He shrugs. Father always taught him learning everyone’s name was important for business, no matter who they were. Marinette finally takes a breath, a long, loud, rattling one, and then she collapses in on herself. “Oh my gosh, Adrien, I’m so sorry. Am I going to get you in trouble?”

“Depends on how well you can fudge an interview,” he leans back in his chair, spreading his arms so that he looks open and comfortable. He desperately wants her to calm down; he _needs_ to see what a chilled Marinette looks like. “So. How early did you actually leave, to go through all of that and still get here…” he checks his watch. “...precisely on-time?”

Marinette twitches, and blushes. “I was excited,” she says to her knees.

They’re so glossy and red in those amazing nylons.

His heart swells a little. “You were?”

“Of course I was,” she says, peering up at him shyly from under those ridiculous lashes of hers.

He flexes his hands over the white leather curves of highest-quality armrest. “I’m happy to hear that,” he says, with great sincerity. He couldn’t have held it in if he tried; he’s just...really glad she’s here, even if the circumstances are cartoonishly improbable. “I’m sorry to say we probably won’t make it to Camille’s though. Nathalie was going to call you to cancel. They’ve got me booked for at least six more interviews.”

“Oh,” Marinette’s hands drop to rest on her thighs, ankles slackening in the straps of her frankly dangerous platform-toed pumps, and the overall effect is that of a winter-wilted rose. “I’m sorry.”

“It is in no way your fault,” Adrien says. “I can’t believe I get to see you at all, honestly.”

Marinette looks up at him, slightly smudged eyebrows mooshing center-ward. “ _You_ can’t?”

“I didn’t hear from you for almost a week,” he says, trying not to sound too pouty. “I probably shouldn’t have called this morning, either. Am I being too pushy?”

Marinette starts to answer, but then she stops. She cocks her head to the side, considering. “Pushy?” Her gloss-slick lips push into a moue, and she actually gives the question eleven seconds of hard thought. “Actually...yeah. You kind of are. Not _too_ pushy, but...yeah, there’s a bit of push there.”

He startles just a tiny bit. 

“Not _are,_ not now,” she backtracks. “But you were. At home. You surprised me.”

“I’m really sorry about the hand thing, I--”

“You _were_ going to kiss me,” she breathes, eyes widening in wonder, “weren’t you.”

Adrien hadn’t expected that. He feels the blush creeping up his neck.

“No,” he says honestly, “but I wanted to.”

Marinette leans so far forward in her armchair that she’s practically dangling off the edge of the cushion. “Why?”

Adrien tries to think back. The whole memory is sort of a blur, and he’d been so tired that morning, and so caught off-guard by that shop girl and her phone camera…

He recalls Marinette as he’d first seen her: bent over inside the bakery case with her braid caught in the light fixture, completely unaware that it was until she’d snagged herself trying to stand up. He pictures her with her handful of hair, talking to that little boy, going off on that weird panic-induced tangent about selling Adrien the bakery, giving him her shirt without a second thought. She hadn’t cared at all that she was lying in a puddle of someone else’s orange juice; she just reached straight under the table and grabbed that soggy croissant. Her flat is warm and it smells like bread, and when she was little, her teeth were gappy. She’d given that gift to her flatmate for his fiance like it was nothing. And of course she’d offered to pay him back for every single piece of clothing that she _immediately_ recognized the labels of, which, given that she owns a bakery of all things, was utterly absurd. Her grip had been so firm and so strong when she’d dragged him upstairs, like they were old friends; like he was actually touchable. She was completely willing to take the blame for the unicorn incident _before_ she realized she’d bumped into Adrien Agreste.

In fact, the first thing she’d said to him had nothing to do with him being Adrien Agreste. She hadn’t even mentioned his fame in any capacity until she’d seen him staring at her baby photos, and even then, she hadn’t asked anything of him when she finally did.

She hadn’t just taken that kiss from him, like a lot of people might have.

And she’d completely ignored his stupid line about her shampoo. 

He realizes abruptly that Marinette hadn’t demanded anything out of him at all. He hasn’t met anyone who hasn’t since he was fourteen years old.

“You seem kind,” he says simply.

All of the muscles in her face relax into an expression he hasn’t seen her wear yet, something soft and pink and lovely that pushes her eyes into half-moons and flares her nostrils ever so slightly. “So do you,” she says, before that twinkle in her bluebell eyes goes quite impish indeed, “even if you don’t know the first thing about personal space.”

Adrien chuckles and scratches at the back of his neck, skin beginning to tingle. “Thing is, Mari, I _do._ ” 

She’s still processing that when Nathalie returns with her clipboard, shooting Adrien a subtly probing look. 

“Who do we have next, Nathalie?” he asks quietly, eyes sliding, completely _without_ subtlety, from the crown of Marinette’s rain-slick head to the ridges in her sculptured red ankles. 

“Ah, it’s Storm, from _Le Poit,_ ” she says. 

“Ooh, he can certainly wait five more minutes; he owes me for that dominatrix joke last year,” Adrien smiles cheekily, but he’s looking at Marinette, not at Nathalie. She blushes again, looking down at her hands.

Long, green press-on nails tip each finger. Will those have to be removed before tomorrow’s shift? It’s quite touching, that she’d go to the trouble for what was meant to be a 45 minute drink.

“Five minutes,” Nathalie says warningly, but there’s warmth behind her words.

He starts to say something about her nails, but she surprises him by holding a finger up to stop him.

“Do you have any free time at all today?” she asks quietly, and by the way her entire face flames red and her jaw clenches, it’s taken everything in her power to build up the courage to ask.

Of course he doesn’t. He isn’t so lucky. “I don’t,” he says gently, trying to impress upon her just how upset he is about it. “I just keep making trouble for you, don’t I?”

“Am I allowed to say yes at this point?”

She’s smiling, but she also looks like she might cry.

“I’ll call you,” he says, abrupt and maybe a little too-desperate, but he doesn’t care if he seems that way. “I promise. You know, Chloe’s got a yacht; we could--”

“You don’t owe me anything, Adrien,” Marinette says quietly, and she bends to pick up her pastries. “ _Seriously._ Thank you for...I don’t know. Just, thanks. Okay?”

Adrien wilts. “Okay.”

“Right,” she says, nodding to herself. “Okay.” She stands up, but not before pressing the box of pastries into his arms. “I know you’re on a cut, but...but I think you look amazing. And I’ll make sure _I_ answer the phone next time. Promise.”

She offers him her hand for a shake, which he takes, and--

\--and he just can’t help himself. He bends to kiss her knuckles. She smells like bread.

\--

Her mobile number is written on the pastry box. The eights are composed of ladybugs attached to pawprints.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's really fun writing adrien trying to suppress his chat-self. *~*~*~*let it gooooooooooooooooooo, let it gooooooooooooooooooooooooo*~*~*~*
> 
> nino will get his chance to be amazing in the next chapter, because i love him, and he deserves it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the continued lack of nino awesomeness.
> 
> this bit in the original film is ridiculous, UTTERLY RIDICULOUS, and I admit the chapter subsequently got away from me a bit. apologies in advance.

\--

Marinette sighs dejectedly as she is swapped out for the next reporter. The long slog down the hall toward the elevator from Adrien’s room is the most maudlin walk she’s made since she’d realized she had to end things with Luka all of those years ago, and that’s saying something, because Marinette is a Sad Walk Champion. 

Still.

So she’s had a disappointing day. Could be worse. At least she’s made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t mind Adrien being around--she is still _baffled_ that he could ever think ANYONE would.

Man, she hasn’t even had a chance to be underwhelmed by the fabled opulence of the hotel. There hasn’t been any time.

Ah, well.

So that’s that, then. She can go home, help Nino close up the bakery for the day, and maybe she’ll turn in early. It would be nice to get a full night’s sleep for once.

Someone grabs her shoulder just as she reaches to press the button for the elevator. Surprised, she turns around a little too quickly; the woman beside her is sprayed with water from her still-damp hair.

“How did it go?” the woman asks, giving her face a wipe; she doesn’t even seem to notice.

“What?” Marinette blinks at her.

“Agreste,” she presses. “What was he like?”

It’s the woman from earlier, the one who’d asked her all of those prying questions. Marinette tries to duck away from her grip. “Oh.” Marinette warms a bit, remembering Adrien’s lips on her knuckles. “He’s wonderful.” She draws in a long breath, and then sighs it back out. “He’s _really_ wonderful.”

“Ah, good,” the woman says. Then she stares at Marinette’s empty arms.

“Wait, did he take your grandmother’s pastries?”

Oh, crap.

“Uh,” Marinette cycles through about a million excuses she could make, before she goes, “Yeah. What a jerk, right. Pssh.”

 _Oh, what the hell, me,_ she groans internally.

“Madame Cesaire!” someone calls from behind them--it’s the publicist from earlier. “Come on, Chloe’s waiting for you.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Marinette balks, and the nosy journalist finally releases her shoulder. The publicist--her card reads “Alix Kubdel”--nods at her, irritated. 

“Come on,” she says, in clipped American English. “Chop chop.”

“I’m not--I don’t--”

“You’re on the list for five more interviews,” Alix says, switching back to irritated French. “Hurry up, they’re waiting.”

“I--no--wait-- _what?_ \--I--” But she’s already being dragged down the hall again.

\--

The next two hours are actual _torture._

\--

Chloe’s room is so heavily fragranced that Marinette sneezes the whole way through her, for want of a better word, “questions.” 

“So what the hell is up with France’s animal rights laws?” Chloe demands, before Marinette even has a chance to sit down. “Like, why can’t you just give up factory farming already?”

“Huh?” Marinette blurts out. _Sneeze._

“Aren’t you from that magazine about _cows_?” Chloe takes a nail file out of her bag and actually starts using it, like an 80s teen movie villain. Her eyes are stabbing, icy blue; they sear straight through Marinette’s soul and out through her back. 

“You’re wearing _fur,_ ” Marinette splutters.

“And _you’re_ a terrible interviewer,” Chloe states, matter-of-factly.

Holy shit. Marinette instantly _hates_ this woman. Ladybug. Chloe plays _Ladybug._ Marinnete still experiences, like, instant, boiling hatred. She’s never going to be able to look at Bridgette the same way again.

“Excuse me, but you haven’t even given me a chance to ask--” _Sneeze._ “--anything--”

“That’s because _you’re_ supposed to ask the first question. I mean, you didn’t even say _hello_ to me,” Chloe snaps. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Why are we being interviewed by a magazine about cows?”

(The magazine isn’t about cows.)

Marinette’s jaw drops. “Excuse me, Ms. Bourgeois, but I’m France’s premiere bovine journalist,” Marinette snaps back, _BIG SNEEZE,_ “and I’ll have _you_ know that the _Ladybug_ franchise utilized more leather in its last production than any other film premiering that year. How do you feel about _that_?” It’s a complete lie, but Marinette feels that it is justified.

Chloe regards her coolly. “Better to waste it on us than that knockoff handbag you’ve got that you’ll have to replace in a month.” Marinette almost snaps; she _made_ this handbag, damnit, and the construction is fucking immaculate. Chloe doesn’t even give her the chance to clap back; she’s already turned to glower at her bodyguard. “Oh my god, what are you _doing,_ Jean-Ralphio _;_ get her a tissue already, Jesus.” Chloe rolls her eyes as a box is deposited directly onto Marinette’s lap. “I am _so sorry_ about the state of this hotel; nobody anticipates my needs. Parisians are so _cold._ ”

“Aren’t _you--_ ” Marinette sniffs, “--one of us?”

“LA is so much better,” Chloe says, and for a brief second, she actually looks a little sad. “Anyway, have you ever been? You should go. I mean, you won’t be able to afford to stay anywhere nice, but they’ll let anybody into the boutiques in Noho nowadays.”  
  
Marinette shrugs unenthusiastically. 

“No,” she sneezes again. “I’ll be too busy here, with my _cows_.”

“Wow, you are _really_ unprofessional,” Chloe raises an eyebrow at her. “Are you nervous? Do want a Xanny?”

“Are _you_ nervous?”

“Ugh, _no._ I’m bored out of my mind,” Chloe mutters, but not before she catches the look on Marinette’s face. “Oh my god. You are too, aren’t you?” She huffs a sigh of relief. “Oh my god, I haven’t been able to be myself in, like, a _year._ This has been the _worst_. Press junket. In my life.”

Marinette gapes at her.

“Oh, whatever, you’re not even recording _or_ writing this down,” Chloe sighs, “and I really could care less about what anybody writes about me right now, anyway, because none of it is ever true, is it?”

Marinette has literally no idea what to do with that. “Dude, are you okay?” she asks after a minute or two of awkward silence.

“Wow, _that’s_ rude,” Chloe says, but there’s no edge to it. She flips her attention to something on the wall. “Nobody is allowed to ask me that, you know. You’ve really got a lot of nerve.”

“Okay, what _am_ I allowed to ask you?”

“I don’t know; shit about the movie, obviously.”

“ _Fine._ Why do you think they chose _you_ to play the nicest character in the entire series?”

“Oh my god, that question is _so boring;_ just google it if you want to find out,” Chloe rolls her eyes again, but she actually seems...really uncomfortable. “Listen, I know it's not right--just...just tell them I was great, and the movie’s going to be great. All anybody ever wants to talk about is Felix’s bromance with Claude anyway. God, I wish _I_ could write these stupid interviews instead of _you_ people.”

She gives Marinette an almost predatory once-over, and waits.

Marinette sneezes again. 

“Yeah,” she mutters. “Okay. We can do that. What else do you want me to say?”

Chloe perks up. “Wait, really? Like...I can just...tell you whatever I want?”

“Go for it,” Marinette shrugs. “I really don’t care.” 

...and she really doesn’t at this point.

Chloe seems to be at a loss for a few seconds, as she tugs at the ends of her impossibly shiny hair. “Right. So. I’ve been in films since I was five, yeah? And like, I’ve always been a leading lady. But it’s completely dissatisfying, you know? I’m so stifled. I’ve never really felt like I have any artistic freedom, you know?”

It takes every ounce of effort in Marinette’s being not to smirk at her. “Of course. What _would_ you rather do?”

Chloe’s eyes light up, and Marinette can see the moment she’s transported somewhere else. “Record a _bluegrass_ album.”

\--

Chloe talks at her for almost half an hour.

...Marinette actually kind of grows to like her after a while, but that might be because listening to her talk has dissolved the few remaining brain cells she has left.

\--

Marinette is standing across from Claude.

It’s Claude.

She is in a room with Claude.

She is in a room with _Tom Holland._

“Bonjour!” she says happily, holding out a hand to him.

“Hello,” he grins back, shaking it. 

“Comment vas-tu?” she asks, taking the seat he actually pulls out for her.

"I'm good, I'm good. And you?"

Marinette tells him that she's great; that she's so excited to meet him, and that she adores Claude. Claude is the best part of the series, in her opinion, besides Chat Noir. Who is his favorite character?

He settles himself in the chair opposite, and turns big, brown, _completely confused_ eyes on her. “Sorry, what was that?”

Oh.

Oh no.

He doesn’t speak French. 

Oh shit.

“I’m--I’m so happy to meet you!” she says hastily, in English, trying to appear calm. He visibly relaxes, so that’s...two points to her, she guesses. Well, okay, maybe one point. “So,” she says, praying to every deity available that her years of language class in college haven't been completely wasted, “um. How do you like Paris?”

“Oh, I love it,” he says brightly. “I always like it here.”

“So you, um…” Marinette bites her lip. “You golf?” She saw him talking about that once, when he was doing _Spideman_ ; she feels _really bad_ for skipping past interviews that Adrien didn’t feature in now.

Alya is going to beat her senseless when she finds out what Marinette is doing. Maybe she never will. Maybe, before that can happen, Marinette will run away to Estonia and join a convent by the sea, and be pecked to death by seagulls or something.

Oh god.

“I did! My brother and I, last week, it was great.” He smiles expectantly, waiting for her next question. 

“Um, yes, good!” Marinette pretends to write that answer down, because obviously she isn’t going to make that same mistake twice. “So. Are there any...farms...in the film?”

Tom’s eye twitches just a little bit, and he leans forward toward her. “Sorry, was that--was that a question about farms?” 

“Yes,” Marinette says, face turning red. “Ah, um. I am from--a farming magazine?”

“Oh! You’re the cow woman. Chloe tweeted about you. She was actually _nice_ for once,” Tom’s smile stretches further, and then he catches himself. Marinette can’t have heard him right; did he just call her a cow? “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m not calling you a cow. You’re really lovely. Have you met Adrien yet? He’s going to be really into you; he has a type. Oh. That’s um. That’s off the record. I just--yeah, so, this is off the record too, alright, but, man, I’m so sorry about all of that; please, ask me anything you want--”

Oh god, oh god, he’s speaking so quickly; she has no idea what he’s saying.

“What?” Marinette drops her phone. “Sorry? Uh--it is, a little too fast,” Her phone starts buzzing; it’s Nino. “Ah! Bon sang, c’est des conneries...Ne fais pas ça, Nino…”

“Oh, I’m sorry, uh--” Tom stands, gesturing to his bodyguard, “um, we’ll bring you a translator, don’t worry--”

“A translator!” Marinette sags with relief. “Oh, yes! Thank you! I was thinking you said I was a cow before, but that’s not right, and--I’m so embarrassed!”

“No, the cow is Chloe,” Tom rolls his eyes. “Oh, god. That’s off the record too.” He pauses. “Off the record? Oh, shit, it’s like, well, confidential.”

“Everything is confidential, I promise!” Marinette grins. “I know off the record.”

“Great!” Tom beams. “So, let’s talk about farms!”

“Okay!” Marinette grins. “Do you like sheep?”

“I _love_ sheep!” Tom grins. “I played one once.”

“Yes! Daisy the Sheep!”

“I _was_ Daisy!”

“I love the way you eat grass!”

“Have you ever eaten it in real life?” he shakes his head. “Terrible.”

“You were a cartoon,” Marinette giggles.

“Oh, I didn’t do it for a film,” he shrugs. “I was just curious one time.”

“Ah, yes,” Marinette nods sagely. “I was too, one time. It’s kind of like--mm,” Marinette wracks her brain for the words. “Like potato; but the outside part.” She tries to mime peeling a potato, and somehow Tom seems to know exactly what she means.

Tom nods encouragingly. “It is, isn’t it? But with--green. It tastes green.”

“Yes! I understand you! It is green! It tastes green!” 

“It’s not bad,” they say in unison, before breaking down into nervous giggles.

Tom smiles at her, very warmly, and Marinette wonders if all the men in this film were cast because they can do that. He’s slow and measured when he says next, “Hey, this is actually kind of nice. All anybody ever asks me about is _Spiderman._ Which is great, but, I mean. The people selling _Ladybug_ toys don’t love me promoting the competition, do they?”

“Don’t worry. I like the sheep best,” she promises, and they laugh together again.

\--

Alix is yanking her out of the room before the translator has a chance to show up; she’s hissing at her about Chloe’s tweet, which she hadn’t even seen. At least she and Tom do manage to play a pretty entertaining game of charades before that happens, though. 

\--

By the time she’s stumbled her way through all of the Quantic Kids, she’s been spoken to three times by Alix, once by Tom’s bodyguard, who basically asked if he could have whatever drugs she was on, and nonce by Nino, because she’s ACTUALLY going to kill him for failing to give her Adrien’s message when he should’ve done. 

All of the other reporters still doing their rounds want to know what happened with Chloe, and she’s trying to shake them away, awash in mortification. She’s about to tell a couple of them off when Nathalie reappears. 

“Pardon me, Ma’am Cesaire?” she asks softly. “Will you follow me, please?”

“No,” Marinette replies automatically, which makes Nathalie do a double take. Marinette sighs. Of course she’s not going to blow off Nathalie; this day isn’t going to get any worse, is it?

Nathalie swipes her key card across Adrien’s lock, and then leads her straight through the suite’s sitting room, back to Adrien’s bedroom. The door is shut very quickly behind her.

A huge fork of lightning illuminates the world outside, bright enough that it penetrates even the blackout curtains. Adrien’s hair is ruffled, his tie is loose, and he is completely exhausted. A bottle of scotch is open on his dressing table. He has a tumbler pressed into her hands before either of them say a single word.

“So,” he takes a swig, “that went well for you. I’m really impressed. Not everyone could’ve managed that.” 

He sounds like he means it.

“It _really_ didn’t,” she mutters, dropping onto his bed.

“Nonsense,” he grins at her, crossing his left shoe over his right, swooping down into a sitting position on the floor at her feet in one fluid movement. “Chloe adored you. Holly--er, Tom-- thinks you’re hilarious; you were his favorite part of the entire day.”

“ _No.”_

“Okay, I _might_ be paraphrasing a bit. Tom was really mad they left you without a translator and Chloe’s already forgotten who you are,” Adrien grins apologetically up at her. “You did a fantastic job with Zizi, though. I really thought that connection you made between the fox miraculous and the importance of the conservation of fox habitat was paw-ticularly inspired.”

“Was that a fox pun?”

Adrien nods. “Do you mind? I spent ages in my Chat Place for that _Variety_ guy,” he says, mellow. “It’ll be awhile before I’m back out of it.”

Marinette smiles down at the cowlick swirling just at the highest point of his skull. She resists the urge to twirl her finger in it. 

“Chat Place sounds a heck of a lot less clawful than Marinette Place right now,” she grunts, before taking a sip of the scotch and groaning in sheer bliss. She wonders how much money she just poured down her throat.

“I like it _too_ much, I think.” The mattress shifts slightly beneath her thighs as he settles his head against its edge. “You done for the day?”

“I’m done for the rest of my life.” She finishes off the glass in one more long pull. “Alya is going to be _furious_ I used her name for this.”

“It’s not like she actually works for an agricultural magazine, and you’re not publishing anything, so you haven’t done any real harm,” Adrien says soothingly, eyes sliding closed. “Anyway, I’ll talk to Alix; she’s probably already figured out something weird was going on.”

Perhaps she should tell Adrien Alya may not work for said magazine, but that she _is_ a journalist, but she really can’t handle anything else with any emotional weight at the moment. “So, um...did you need to see me? About anything else?”

Adrien tips his head sideways. His celestial nose is mere centimeters from her thigh, exhalations surprisingly cool through clinging nylon. 

“So it turns out I’ve made alternative plans this evening,” he says. 

“Oh?” Just how bad would it be if she really did run her fingers through his choppy undercut? It’s so fluffy. She kind of wishes he was wearing Chat’s leather ears now; it would be fun to try scratching behind them.

“Yeah,” he nods. “See, I’ve got an appointment with--what was the title? Ah, yes--France’s ‘ _premiere bovine journalist._ ’”

Marinette nearly sinks into the swirling hole of raging embarrassment that now comprises 89 percent of her entire identity, but--and maybe it’s the influence of that beautiful scotch--she manages to perfectly comprehend what he’s just said, on the first try. “You canceled plans for me?”

“Yes, for you, Madame _Cesaire._ ” He holds up a hand, pointing at her calf. “May I?”

“Uh, I guess…?” She blinks down at him, all of the day’s bullshit dissolving away like so much candy floss in water. 

The way he slides his fingers down her shin bone makes her entire body explode into sparkling, tingling pleasure.

“These stockings are purrrrrrfect,” he hums. “They’re so smooth.”

“I m-made them, back in university, we had a machine--the seams aren’t quite straight, but--they’re--” she gulps “--really old now.” Adrien’s hand stills as he examines the fabric, but Marinette wants _none_ of that. Dear lord in heaven, she _presses her leg into Adrien’s hand._ His eyes widen, pupils blown, cheeks turning quite a furious red indeed, and she watches it creep straight down the open collar of his black silk shirt.

“You _made_ them?” His tie falls ever so slightly as his adam’s apple bobs with such force that his whole sternum shifts. “Wow.” His fingers close around her ankle. “Now I _really_ like them.”

Marinette is half a second from dragging him up into her lap when her phone goes off again. If it’s Nino again, _seriously…_

\--but it isn’t Nino’s ringtone. It’s Luka’s.

“Oh,” she looks down at his contact photo. “Oh, I’m sorry, Adrien, I--I have to take this.”

“No problem, Princess,” Adrien smiles lazily at her, a curling little thing that bares his sharp canines, hand sweeping away, down the length of her foot. 

“H-hello?” she asks, trying desperately to focus on whatever it is Luka wants, and not how badly she would rather be pinning Adrien to the floor to have her way with him.

“Marinette,” comes Luka’s ever-placid greeting. “Hey, sorry, I know you’re out right now, but Nino’s been trying to reach you for ages. The boat’s docked; the storm was pretty hard on it--we’re going to have the party at your place, if that’s alright? We just wanted to make sure it was okay before--”

“Of course,” Marinette murmurs, and she can’t even bring herself to cover up the absolute despair that’s just coated her. “Yeah. Always. Of course.”

“What’s wrong, Mari?” Luka asks softly. “Hey--”

“Nothing,” Marinette says abruptly. “Nothing. Um, just text me a list of anything you need me to pick up. Okay?”

Luka murmurs a faint acknowledgment, and then an uncertain goodbye. Marinette hangs up on him without another word.

Seriously, what is today? _Seriously?_

She finally gives in to the urge to run her hands through Adrien’s hair, indulging herself in one long, slow stroke. His roots are tacky with sweat. The strands are slick, soft, and dense, and it--goodness--it really does feel like stroking a cat.

“I have to go.” Her voice sounds weak and thready even to herself, and the raw despondency that morphs Adrien’s face into nothing but huge green wobbling irises punches her straight in the gut. 

“But--why? Is everything alright?” Adrien sounds incredibly vulnerable then-- _no_ , Marinette can’t focus on what Adrien sounds like, because it hurts. 

“Oh, yeah, just--” Marinette gives him another pet, and he butts his head up against her palm. “Nino and, well, my ex-husband, and I, we were throwing Alya a surprise party tonight. And I completely forgot.”

Adrien’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh...well...I mean, I _am_ free.”

Her hand slips downward to cup his left ear. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, I mean--” he sits up, reaching to grasp the fingers that had just been stroking him. “I mean, I could go with you, if you want. You know. As your…” He wriggles his shoulders; it’s an odd movement. “You know, your date.”

“Surely you don’t want to spend your one night off with--with _us,_ in the bakery--”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Adrien grins hopefully at her. “I mean, you have a turntable and everything.” 

The number of moodswings Marinette’s experienced in the past hour are probably causing more lasting damage than even Chloe’s “interview” had. 

“Really?” A smile cuts across her face, mirroring Adrien’s own. “Okay. I. Okay. I need to run some errands first, but--” Giddiness replaces her dread quick as it had come in the first place. “Okay! _Wow!_ It’s a date!”

“Great!” He bounces to his feet, holding his hand up for her to take. “Come on, I’ll walk you down.”

“Now, I mean, I have to warn you--Luka is, like, wonderful, you’ll love him, though he’ll probably try to--show you your heart song; that’s a whole thing, just go with it, and Nino is actually, like, the _best person_ I’ve ever met, so don’t, you know, don’t hold the phone incident against him; he’s incredible, and Alya is _so funny_ and so _competent_ and she likes chocolate a lot, if you want to bring a gift, and--Kim is an idiot, but I love him, but _still,_ watch out for him, and Max is a genius and he makes _robots_ but he might not come, because he was doing a lecture today, and Kagami...Kagami is terrifying, but she is also amazing, and I adore her, and she’s Luka’s wife, and she’s one of my best friends, so that’s not going to be weird, I promise, and she’s like super rich like you, or she _was,_ before her mom disowned her, so like, you can talk about...rich people crap with her, she’s so amazing, and--who else is coming? OH. Ivan and Mylene are the NICEST people in the world, but Mylene is SUPER pregnant, so they might just stop in to say hi; Juleka and Rose are unfortunately with Rose’s niece tonight, because it’s _her_ birthday, so that’s a bummer, because they are like, if you could see love incarnate, like love in human form, it would be--Juleka actually made those cookies Thomas was trying to steal, so she’d appreciate your efforts in saving all her hard work--and--”

Adrien reaches up to place a finger against her lips. “They all sound miraculous,” he says. “I can’t wait to meet them.” He smooths the finger down her chin, tipping her face upward.

“They’re my family,” Marinette finishes happily. 

Again, his hand falls away from her, but it is with great and obvious reluctance. “I’m honored that you’re bringing me home, then.”

\--

The ride down the service elevator with G is pleasantly giddy (they can’t go out the main entrance, because there are paparazzi outside, and he isn’t ready to put Marinette through that just yet). Marinette bounces up and down on her toes, babbling on about the list Luka has sent her. Even G seems to soak in her energy, and if Adrien isn’t mistaken, he might’ve almost cracked a smile at her anecdote about how Alya had proposed to Nino on accident in the middle of an argument about snails.

Adrien really, _really_ likes her. 

The service elevator opens up into the basement. There is a corridor leading from the basement that is connected to a gated parking lot adjacent to the hotel; it is specifically designed to allow people like Adrien to come and go without media attention. Marinette seems to understand this inherently, and does not require explanation for why they’re taking such a convoluted route to leave. When they reach the outside world, the storm has eased ever so slightly, but fat drops of water still pelt the eve they emerge under. 

“So! See you in a few,” Marinette beams up at him. Even in her heels, she has to tilt her neck all the way back to look into his eyes, and the effect of her twinkling up at him is so immensely charming, he is struck a bit dumb. She flicks his tie. “ _You_ need to freshen up,” she says with a faux-imperious little sniff. “I can’t have some ruffian showing up to meet my friends, can I?” 

“Well, I _would_ wear my best suit, but _something_ happened to it.” He grins suavely at her, waggling his eyebrows. “I’ve got this _amazing_ vintage t-shirt, though, that this weird little thing gave me; it does _amazing_ things to my abs.” He flexes at her. She shoves him. 

“Ugh, _no,_ ” she flushes. “I can already imagine what Alya would say if she saw you wearing my pyjamas.”

“Your-- _ooh,”_ Adrien can’t help but lech a bit at that. Marinette has the audacity to waggle her eyebrows back at him, and it throws him so thoroughly that he might actually clutch his heart. Regaining his bearings, he leans in close to whisper very, very softly, “Don’t you _dare_ change, understand me?” 

Marinette presses her cheek against his for just a moment, and he can feel her trembling, before she twirls away to clutch G’s elbows, causing G to stare at her with almost a full facial expression. “Thank you for taking such good care of him,” she says, and then she _hugs him._

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you a ride, Mlle.,” G says, and wellp. Adrien nearly loses it then. If he wasn’t sure that Marinette is something special before, he’s certain of it now. The last time G said a full sentence, it was 2016, in Barcelona, and it was only to tell Adrien their hotel room was on fire, and _man,_ had _that_ been an event.

Marinette holds her purse over herself to shield her hair from the rain. “Okay. I’m going now,” she says. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

Adrien nods first to her, and then to G. G passes him the black umbrella he has waiting behind his back. It blossoms above her with a soft woosh. 

She gazes up at him from under it, very obviously affected.

“You forgot yours,” he says simply, and just before she takes it, her finger bumps his knuckle.

The touch is like a kiss.

\--


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: There is quite a heavy scene near the end of the chapter dealing with dissociation, cancer, and a few other not particularly fluffy subjects. If you would like to skip this scene, simply scroll past the section marked ~~~~~~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~~~~~~, ending in ~~.

12 Rue Gotlib is awash in golden light. The bakery isn’t often illuminated at night, except during the winter months, when their hours are extended; seeing it this way, glowing in the darkness, always reminds Marinette of Christmas time, and she has the same giddy anticipation growing inside her as as she once did awaiting the arrival of Père Noël. Arms laden with plastic champagne glasses and party streamers and pyrotechnic poppers, she unlocks the door, shaking out her-- _Adrien’s_ \--umbrella just before she steps inside.

“Hello, everyone!” she calls happily, dumping her bags on a table. 

“Hi Mari,” Luka, Kagami, and Nino call back in unison. They’re spread out all over the place; Marinette can’t actually see any of them.

Luka appears from the stairwell a moment later, a fish tail fanning out above his forehead. His hair is currently pink, purple, and Guillermo Del Toro blue, and it does amazing things for his still-lovely cheekbones. 

“They didn’t have blu-tack, so I just got a bunch of double-stick tape,” she says, as he kisses her cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he asks, side-stepping her to rifle through the bags. “It’s not like you to ignore phone calls.”

“Luka,” she says, simmering chaotic energy making her joints rattle, “I have had the most _insane_ week. You have no idea.”

“Oh, insane-good?” He begins sorting various decorations into piles. 

“Insane _everything,_ ” she breathes. “Insane every possible human emotion. I’ve been up and down like...like...like a yo-yo.”

Uncoiling a spool of metallic orange ribbon, he raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” He takes one long look at her and then smiles widely. “Oh. Wow. You _are_ happy, aren’t you? You sounded so miserable on the phone.”

“She met someone, and she won’t tell us _who,_ ” Nino yells from the kitchen. 

Luka’s smile goes all soppy. Oh, dear. “You _have._ ”

“Yes,” she says immediately, “and he’s coming tonight, so I WANT YOU ALL ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOR.” This last bit is as loud as she can make it, because she wants to make sure anybody else who might be here (Kim) hears her as well.

“Oh, Mari, that’s great,” Luka beams. “Is he anyone we know?”

Marinette gives that a moment’s consideration. “Um.” She inspects the tape roll she’s just pulled from the bag. “Not personally.”

“So you’re going to be cryptic about it,” Luka teases her gingerly, dragging a chair to the corner to begin hanging his streamer. “Alright. It’ll be a nice surprise, then.”

God, she hopes so.

She leaves Luka to the decorating so she can run upstairs to fix her hair and makeup; she passes Kagami and Kim on the way, and hugs them both. 

Her vanity table is still a mess from the rush she’d been in earlier in the afternoon, and she’s just managed to locate her bronzer when her phone pings. _Skip_ goes her heart.

 _Did you really tell Tom Holland you eat grass?_ is Adrien’s very first text message to her.

\--

She wastes twenty minutes bantering with him.

\--

Nino leaves to fetch Alya from work under the pretense that they’re going out to dinner, even though Alya totally knows she’s having a surprise party. 

The bakery looks pretty amazing; between Luka’s skill with double-stick tape and Kagami’s impeccable taste in interior design, it’s shaping up to be a proper soiree. 

It turns out it’s just going to be them this evening, though, because everyone else had to cancel in the end after all, so perhaps the decorations are overkill, but it’s fine. Alya will love it, anyway.

An assortment of snacks have been ordered, at Nino’s insistence, because he hadn’t wanted to leave all the cooking to Marinette like they usually do (because he is _definitely_ sucking up to her now), and a RIDICULOUS amount of every gross-ish drink known to man has been provided by Kim. When Marinette gently asks him how he afforded it, and if she can chip in for half, he shrugs and admits he kind of stole a bunch of the least popular bottles from the storeroom at work. It’s chill though, apparently, because his boss told him to take them.

Ah, Kim. 

So that’s it. Once they have the birthday girl, that’s everyone accounted for. 

...almost, of course.

She’s arranging tiny onion tarts on a bright pink platter when she hears Luka go, “Hi, welcome, you must be Marinette’s--” A pause. A _looooooooong_ pause. “--date _._ ”

\--3 Minutes Prior--

G pulls up beside 12 Rue Gotlib just a few minutes earlier than Marinette had told Adrien to arrive, so he considers maybe waiting a few moments before he actually goes in, to make him seem at least a _tiny_ bit cooler than he actually is. Really, he should’ve shown up fashionably late, like the proper famous person he is, but it’s a surprise party, and he hadn’t wanted to wait to show up ‘til after Nino and Alya arrived, just in case he ruined it, so... 

Ah, but he can see silhouettes moving behind golden shades, and he knows one of them belongs to Marinette, and the temptation to join them is just too much to bear, image be damned. He’s climbing out of the car before G can open his door for him, offering a hasty good-bye wave, and he isn’t above admitting he might be bouncing on the balls of his feet a little as he waits for someone to open up after his almost-polite knock. It isn’t the _perfect_ knock, it might be a bit sharp and rushed, and he _knows_ a person’s knocking-style is important for first-impressions, but he’s genuinely too excited for pinpoint social precision at the moment. He doesn’t want Alya’s chocolates getting wet, either; whoever wrapped them has done a beautiful job: every opalescent curl perfectly placed, every crease in the shiny yellow paper straight and symmetrical. He has no idea how Nathalie managed to get them delivered on such short notice, but she’d done it, the beauty.

The door cracks open with a creak. A tall man with amazing candy-pastel hair opens it for him, and though he is as edgy and nu-gothic, stylistically, as any Panic! At The Disco fan circa 2008, he has the kind of inviting boyband handsomeness people in Adrien’s business pay damn good money to display in their YouTube commercials. 

“Hi, welcome, you must be Marinette’s--” that money-making smile is replaced by utter, complete shock. “--date.”

Adrien offers his own best Disney beam in return (but he _definitely_ isn’t trying to out-prince him, no way), and they shake hands, rings knocking together. “Hi, I’m Adrien. It’s a pleasure.”

“Mutual, then.” It’s actually kind of impressive how quickly Baby Blues recovers, pulling the hair tie from his fringe to shake out his Jagged Stone-esque mullet. Jeez, he’s got great hair. “I’m Luka. Follow me; she’s in the kitchen.” 

Ah, right. This is Marinette’s former husband.

“The place looks great,” Adrien enthuses. An extremely beautiful and deeply intimidating woman dressed in a ridiculously short red romper is screwing a colored bulb into one of the lamps; she pays Luka and Adrien zero attention, because she has her earpods blaring what sounds like _Night on Bald Mountain_ so loudly that he can actually hear it clear across the room. “It’s going to be amazing when you turn those lights on.”

“Thanks, man, that’s so nice of you to say,” Luka says, genuinely pleased, and Adrien is impressed. This guy has the It factor; what was it Marinette had warned him about? The heart-song thing? That must mean he’s a musician, if that casual charm and the calluses on his tattooed fingers are any indication. 

He takes Adrien back behind the counter and through a tiled entryway, and there Marinette is, beaming up at him, trying to conceal her excitement by standing ramrod-straight. He wonders who exactly she’s trying to hide her enthusiasm from, and he hopes, maybe a bit selfishly, that it isn’t him.

“Hi,” she grins, and gives a single, jerky little wave.

Adrien swallows. If she’d been beautiful before, drenched in rain and anxiety-riddled, she’s a rival to any model he’s ever posed with now, her hair loose and softly curled, her beautiful rosey cheeks devoid of black eyeliner trails.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and he’s so caught up in her he almost fails to notice Luka very discreetly (read: pointedly) leaving them alone together.

Marinette sets down the tart she’d been holding, and wipes her hands off on a towel.

“Um, how was the drive?” she starts, tentative, demure, stiff.

Hmm. She hadn’t been stiff in the parking lot, and she’d dropped a couple of zingers in their text thread. 

“Too long,” Adrien says, and almost laughs at how cheesily seductive he’s managed to make that sound. Had he meant it that way? Urgh, he might have to get out of Chat Space if he’s going to convince this lady never to ignore him for three days again.

“How did you manage to make _that_ into an innuendo?” Marinette huffs, before realizing she’s just sassed him, and she starts to apologize.

“I genuinely don’t know,” he says, almost-honestly, before she can. “It’s habit, kind of.”

Marinette twists the towel she’s holding into a giant knot so quickly that it kind of blows Adrien’s mind. “There are worse habits I can think of,” she says, almost dreamily, before biting her lip with such pressure, her entire chin stretches with the force of it.

A bit of sass, not a single consonant tripped over. Yes, good. Progress.

He tries to distract her from her obvious embarrassment with a hand on her elbow.“I once made an innuendo about cats in an audition that was _so amazing_ they cast an entire movie franchise around me,” he says gently, hoping maybe he can coax more playfulness from her. He wants to see if she can keep up with him; if she’ll play along. “I’d really appreciate it if you could give me my due-credit.”

“That was a pun, not an innuendo,” she snorts, completely unimpressed, and it’s an incredibly far cry from the nervous stammering he’d reduced her to just a few hours before

 _Ah-ha._ So THAT’S how to get her out of her shell: _acting like an idiot_.

Well, that ought to be easy enough. He's learned a thing or two spending so much time in Chat Space, hasn't he?

“Ah, so you’re one of _those_ Chat fans. No pun left un-grammar-checked.”

“Again. _Again._ How did you turn _THAT_ into an innuendo?”

Oh, he definitely hadn’t made that one intentional. She _might_ be projecting now.

“Do you like it?” He grins.

She levels him with a stare so blank he can hardly believe she’s capable of it. “I literally sat through three hours of interviews I have _no idea how to do_ so I could see you for a grand total of half an hour. What in your right mind would make you think I don’t?”

It’s like sunshine has split the clouds in his mind. He beams for her. 

“Well, I don’t know,” he says, circling her in the way he does when he’s stalking something on-set, and heeeheeehee, she spins to follow his arc, “you haven’t said a _thing_ about how nice I look, for starters. All this work I did for you!”

“You’d better not be wearing my t-shirt under that button-down,” she says, which is ridiculous, because the tight, sheer green linen he’s squeezed into is ridiculously revealing; she can very much tell what is underneath. 

“It’s in my back pocket,” he says, “in case I need a nap.”

She snickers at him, going soft for two seconds, before resuming the game. She rolls her eyes in a huge, exaggerated sweep. “Ooooh, is our little poor-people party going to put you to sleep, fancypants?”

 _She called me a NAME,_ he thinks with such uncontrollable delight he actually does a little skip. 

“I don’t know about sleep, but I wouldn’t mind curling up in your bed,” he says, because yes, this is _definitely_ a game now, a game that he is going to _win_ (he hopes he doesn’t, truthfully), and Marinette bursts out laughing at him. 

“Oh my _god,_ ” she covers her mouth with her hand, before swatting in his general direction with her dishcloth. “I cannot _believe_ you actually said that with a straight face.” She pauses, staring at her own hands in disbelief for a moment, but no. Nope. He’s shutting that down.

He doesn’t wait for her to recover. “What can I say? They pay me the big bucks to deliver a line or two.”

“You’d count _that_ as a _line_?” He likes that cynical eyebrow of hers. He really likes it. “That was a poorly-drawn circle, at best.”

“Ooooh, look at _you,_ with the _quips_. What a difference a traumatic afternoon and complete emotional exhaustion makes.” He stops their ridiculous spinning by hopping up onto the counter, plucking a radish from one of the hors d'oeuvre trays, tossing it high into the air, and catching it easily in his mouth, waiting for her reaction. She pretends not to notice. 

“The parasympathetic response helps,” she concedes. 

“Science words!”

“Are you impressed? 6 syllables in one go. Betcha didn’t know my mouth did that.” She bows.

Ah, he has to hold back on the mouth-ability jokes, no matter how many have bubbled to the surface of his consciousness. Slow and steady, Adrien Agreste, slow and steady.

“All I was paying attention to was how excited you are to see me.”

Marinette slants a goofy little grin at him, before hiding her face behind a curtain of shiny blue-black.

Why is _this_ the thing that’s made her go shy, now? No, no. None of that.

He grabs the edge of Marinette’s towel, raising it above her head with her hand still clutching it, spinning her into the space between his thighs, ballroom-style. He catches her around the waist, smiling at the way her curls fall softly around her cheeks and shoulders as she comes to rest in his arms. “Okay, Funny Girl. What’s got you all hot and _un-_ bothered?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer me tripping over every second word and being a complete mess?” As soon as he’s touching her, he can tell that ‘“excited” is an understatement: she is adrenaline-saturated, practically vibrating with energy.

“Not unless it’s because I’ve blown your mind with my incredible wit and stunning good looks.”

“That’s a little too close to the truth, you know.”

He flushes despite himself, nerves going a bit fluttery. “I am a deeply honest person,” he lies.

She snorts. “I guess, after facing down someone like _the_ Chloe Bourgeois, you and your good face and big old eyes and _constant need to be touched_ don’t seem quite so intimidating,” she grins at him, draping an arm around his neck. 

“I have a good face?”

“Eight out of ten.”

“ _Eight!_ I’m at LEAST a six, face-wise!”

“Fine. Ten point five,” she sniffs. “Definitely no higher than eleven.”

“Anyway, you’ve got it completely wrong,” he says. “Need I remind you, you are terrified of me.” (He’s desperate to prove she shouldn’t be.)

“ _Am I_.”

“...because I’m petrifying.”

“Mmmm, these cute little dimples say otherwise.” She pokes her green nails into them, just to make a point. 

That actually stops him up a second--he hadn’t expected her to poke him, or the actual visceral, bone deep physical response he has to her doing so--and wow. _Wow._ Where has she been hiding _this person_ all week?

“Um, ex _cuuuuse_ me, Mademoiselle Bague-inette, that was _not_ the description I would use,” he says haughtily, tugging her ever closer, so that their hips are flush. She gives a little wriggle, settling herself so they are perfectly slotted together, matching puzzle pieces. He shivers, and she clocks it with quite a cute lash-flutter. 

“Dimples,” he explains, “are an incredible tactical innovation. You have no idea what I’ve got hidden in there.”

“You mean besides more cheek?” She pinches him gently on either side of his mouth, and gives the skin a good wiggle. 

“Blargh! Not my paycheck!” he says, because he DEFINITELY hadn’t been expecting that. Has anyone ever pinched his cheeks before? _Ever?_ “Careful! You might set them off!”

“What, your _dimples?_ ” 

“No, the _munitions._ ”

“Oh, yeah. The ones _inside_ your dimples.”

“Right. I guess I’ll have to show you what I’m packing, since you seem to have forgotten the threat I pose. You just watch this,” he declares, shaking her hands off by rocking his head vigorously (he doesn’t want to release her from the loop of his arms), glancing around to find his light. Ah-ha, there it is. He tilts his face so that it catches his skin just-so, manipulating his eyebrows into that perfect position to make his eyes seem that much more intense. It’s the face he uses in all the super dramatic Chat poses, the ones they plaster on the sides of buses to lure in the crowd that prefers their superheroes super-dramatic and super-duper-pretty. He flexes his ears back, pushing his upper lip forward by a fraction. He stares directly into Marinette’s eyes, unblinking.

Her ribs contract sharply on the upswing of a captive belly laugh. “What the heck is that?”

“Weaponized beauty, Princess. I’ve been keeping it concealed all this time,” he informs her. “Are your knees weak? Careful, don’t fall for me now.”

“Weak from trying to support the weight of your _bullshit_ , maybe,” she giggles back, except her pokey-fingers have gone soft where they are resting against his shoulders, tracing deliciously tingly circles. “How do you do that with your face?”

“I was a model for years, you know. You have to be able to smile with your eyes.”

“That’s weird, cuz I’m pretty sure you were trying to growl with your left earlobe.”

“They say it’s my good side for a reason.”

“You know you’re actually kind of a dork, right?” She smooths her grip down his arms, and her lips close around a contented sigh, breath redirected through her nose. Her freckles stretch. Her trembling begins to ebb.

“ _Kind-of_ ?” he scoffs, running his palms up the line of her spine. “I am a _huge_ dork. It’s extremely difficult to reach this level, you see. It’s taken me _years_ to perfect my craft. This is what’s going to land me my Oscar, just you wait.”

“Don’t you have to _act_ to win an Oscar?” 

That--huh. Is she insulting him? “What, you don’t think I play Chat well?”

“I mean, I think you _play_ Felix extremely well?” 

He goggles at her. Wait. She misreads his sudden silence for a joke.

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry to disrespect you, Maestro,” she puts on a very silly, simperingly wobbly voice. “I prostrate myself before you and your insurmountable talent.” 

His brain automatically takes him to places involving mounting things, but that’s probably a bit much to spring on her in this definitely not-completely-private kitchen, and he’s still feeling a little delicate from the dig at Chat.

“Well, can’t please people with terrible taste,” he says, going for egotistical.

She realizes she’s made a mistake, and he's worried he's pushed her back into stammering territory.

He hasn't.

“I’m kidding, Adrien, promise. I think you’re amazing. You’re one of the best actors of our generation, easily.” She pets his hair. “I’m not going to go all creepy fangirl on you just yet, though. I mean, I _definitely_ don’t know that your favorite color is green, and that you love camembert, and that your cinematic idol growing up was James Dean.”

He grunts, trying to seem like he's feigning insult.

“I _definitely_ haven’t downloaded that direct-to-video indie movie you made when you were eighteen where you played a teenage heroin addict, and you were credited as Adrien Sancoeur.” She smiles encouragingly at him. “You know, because apparently you think _I_ think you’re such a terrible actor, and all.”

“Pearls before swine,” he grins instead, and she gives him a tiny little swat.

He titters. She just _swatted_ him.

“What is with people comparing me to barnyard animals today?” 

“I mean, I play a _cat_ professionally, so…'course, maybe you just really object to animals in general...”

“Oh god, _pl_ _ease_ don't think I was insulting your Chat, Adrien,” Marinette says. “I guess what's kind of confusing me right now is...I mean, I never brought Chat Noir up. So...I. _You_ did." Her teeth find her lip again. "I just...kind of assumed Chat Space was the same as Adrien Space.” 

He purrs at her, because he doesn’t really like where she’s going with that, so if he leans into it hard, maybe she won’t realize he doesn’t want to touch that topic. That’s the kind of stuff that ends relationships, and _he_ is never the one that ends them. They are three seconds into this thing, and he’s not about to screw it up. “You’ve caught me. I have been a tiny, fuzzy animal this whole time. I have tricked you into believing I am a man, and now I am going to conquer your entire kingdom.”

“Oooh, turn-off,” she wrinkles up her cute little nose. “I don’t know that Puss-in-Boots-references make for a great come-ons.”

“Need I remind you from _five minutes ago,_ I can make _anything_ into a great come-on...your words, not mine.”

“Mmmm, was there a ‘great’ involved in that assessment…?”

“‘Maestro,’ Marinette. The term you used was ‘Maestro.’”

She shakes her head imperiously. “Nope. Impossible. Some things just aren’t sexy.”

Adrien considers, looking around the kitchen for something he can use. Hmmmmmmmmm. Ah! There it is. Bingo. “Okay, okay, I got it. Prepare yourself.”  
“Oh, but how could I ever prepare myself for _you,_ Monsieur Agreste?” she drawls, except it’s a completely loaded statement, for _obvious reasons,_ and really, though _,_ how has she been keeping this side of her personality under wraps? Why would she keep this a secret from him for nearly twenty-four hours of shared human interaction? 

“Alright, here we go, 3…2...1…” He drops his voice to its lowest, growliest register. “Marinette, your _sugar_ canisters are _so…_ ” He sucks a long breath through his closed teeth, curling his lips as he blinks slowly at her, arching himself back and away from her just in case touching him while he’s bending this way freaks her out, “hnngh... _chromatic._ ”

She bursts out laughing. Not freaked out, then. Good. “ _Sugar canisters?!!_ ” She swoops forward, hips first, head thrown back with the force of her joy.

He grins, giving in to the need to squeeze her to his chest, finally, _finally_ allowed to relish the full-body contact. “I knew it! I got you. You’re completely overcome right now!” He rocks her back and forth a few times, stilling only when she lets out a shriek because he’s lifting her off her toes, and her shoes aren’t stabilizing enough to keep her standing if he tries that. “See? I’m already making you scream.”

“In _annoyance!_ ”

“I think you mean _enjoy-ance._ ” 

“I would _enjoy it_ if you’d come up with better material.”

“I am literally paid millions of dollars for this material.”

“I would pay you millions of dollars to sew that material into a gag.”

He pulls back a bit, but only so he can brush their noses together. “Are you saying you want to gag me, Princess?”

She looks so unimpressed that he wonders if he needs to reel it in. “I kind of want to _smack_ you, and not in the S&M way.”

Right.

“Hmm,” he murmurs. “Too much?”

“I think it’s safe to say this entire week has been too much.”

Ah. Okay, then. _Definitely_ time to reel it in. He flattens his face into something less loopy, hoping it’s closer to something she’ll like, and he leans back, surveying her reaction.

She--looks odd. 

Oh no. 

“Ah, heheh, sorry, Marinette,” he puts on a bit of dignity, and releases his left arm from where it was plastered to her swooping waist. He smooths his hair down impulsively. “I get carried away sometimes; I’ll tone it down.” 

She follows him as he pulls back though, eyebrows drawing together into two concerned points. “What? Why?” 

He smiles for her, the attractive one that puts everyone at ease: not too bright, not too forced. He was raised to be a gentleman, and he is currently being anything but. He’s about to say something nice, something sweet, but she finds his dimples again, caressing them. 

Marinette’s gaze is incredibly soft. “When did I ever say too much was bad?”

Adrien studies her for a few seconds, not sure if he’s okay to make another move or not.

“You okay?” she asks, flexing her knuckles to straightness to trace his cheek the same way she had on that first morning with him. 

“Are you?” he asks.

“I,” she grins, “am _amazing._ ” Then she goes a bit tentative. “Um, I mean. I’m amazing if you are.”

He lowers his arm back down to circle her again. “Well, I’m not about to ruin this date by dorking you to death.”

“You have dorked me to _life,_ Adrien Agreste.”

Right. So if he can make anything sound like an innuendo, Marinette can make _anything_ sound like a declaration of love.

“And here I was,” he swallows, smoothing a palm over the curve of her shoulderblade, “thinking _I_ can deliver a line.” 

She curls back into him, molding herself perfectly against him.

He can feel the stretch of her smile against his pulse. 

He breathes.

“You _do_ think that,” she says, “but you also thought _Bague-inette_ was an acceptable nickname, so…”

“Listen,” he says, and his voice comes a bit thick now, “bread puns are the basis for all the greatest nicknames.”

“Name _one_ besides Bague-inette.”

“Um...Croissant...tra?”

“What?!!”

“Like...Cassandra?”

“Croissants aren’t _bread,_ you heathen. It is viennoiserie, and you _know that._ ”

“Gosh, you know what? I _am_ a heathen. I stand corrected. My entire thesis is flawed. Now that you say that, I realize you deserve butter. I’ve already _spread_ myself too thin.” He moans in emotional despondency. “It appears...that I am toast.”

“Oh, that was positively breadful. Try another one.”

“‘Breadful?’ _You_ try another one! A pathetic attempt at wordplay. That was just _crumby_.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right, O Great, Shining Punmaster; it has been a very long day. I am but your crumble student, and I am so tired, because it’s past my breadtime already.”

“We already used crumbs.”

“Really? We’ve used bread like eight times.”

Adrien realizes just how widely he’s smiling into her hair only when a bit of it catches in his teeth. “It’s okay. Problem with _all_ bread puns is they tend to go stale after a while.”

“See? That’s what I was getting at. Bread puns are a _terrible_ basis for nicknames. Nobody wants a stale nickname.”

Adrien’s heart swells a little in his chest. “Well, what kind of nickname _do_ you want?”

“Oh,” She pets his spine, swirling diamonds around the knobs of his vertebrae, “honestly? I just put you through all of that for nothing. Bague-inette is a beautiful nickname. I loaf it.”

“Agh, damnit, I’m trying to think up something about a lack of consistency, but I knead to stop trying so hard.”

“Ah-ha! That was a pun!”

“But it wasn’t about consistency.”

“Meh,” Marinette shrugs. “It counts.”

“It count...sistance...Mmmf. Nope. I’ve failed in my roll as dork master. I suppose…” He sighs with deepest regret, “...I have a rather short shelf-life.”

Marinette laughs into his collarbone, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt, so he takes that as an invitation to bury his face properly in the junction of her shoulder and her neck, because...well. Holding her, _being_ held by her, feels amazing, he can’t remember the last time he held someone like this, and he doesn’t really need another reason, does he?

“This is really nice,” Marinette says after a while. 

“So you don’t mind my croissant need to be touched, then?”

“You’re really trying again with the croissants? Was that supposed to be ‘constant?’”

“Is that not what I said?”

Her tone can only be described as _dreamy._ “Whatever. I forced myself to endure Chloe Bourgeois to get this hug; I’m taking my reward. Let me enjoy it.”

“All that just to hug little old me? What did I ever do to deserve your admiration?”

“You literally just described yourself, like, a hundred times as being amazing.”

“And yet I am still undeserving.”

“Ugh, stop being so Georgian.”

“But I love talking like Mr. Darcy. Are you not my Jane?”

“ _You_ are _far superior_ to Mr. Darcy.”

“Whoa, that’s easily the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Marinette lets that hang in the air, pushing her fingers up his scalp, making his eyes fall shut. “...you, um. You do know you don’t...don’t have to _deserve_ a hug to get one, Adrien. Right?” 

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, because it hadn’t sounded like a joke. 

He settles on, “Well. _You_ certainly deserve it, anyway.”

They sit that way for a while, his brain slowly going more muddled by her sweet, overwhelming scent, and he’s wondering how they went from being sleazy at each other to expressing searing emotional vulnerability, when someone else very pointedly clears their throat from somewhere beyond them.

Marinette pulls away ever so slightly, blinking slowly. 

“I need someone to help us with the fairy lights,” the woman in the red romper says, and she has quite an intrigued expression on her face. “If you’re not otherwise occupied.”

“Dang it, Kagami, we _are,_ ” Marinette pouts at her, though she is peeling away from him now. 

_Dang it, Kagami_ indeed.

“I am almost completely certain that being ‘occupied’ in a commercial kitchen is a massive health-code violation, so basically I’m saving you from twenty-five lawsuits right now.” She flicks her calculating, cool gaze his way. “Hi, you must be Adrien--” Kagami says, nodding at Adrien, before her eyes go huge and round and brilliantly golden. “-- _Agreste._ Oh my--oh, _Luka._ ” She growls that last part, and actually stomps her foot, and she is now blushing as hard as Marinette does when she’s embarrassed. “Ugh, _sorry,_ the star-struck thing must be incredibly annoying, but I was not prepared. Marinette, for the love of mercy, stop _canoodling_ so I can shake his hand like we’re all semi-functional human beings, I’ve already made a complete dick of myself.” 

“Canoodling!” Marinette huffs, but she steps away as ordered. Adrien hops off the counter, because he has _some_ dignity, contrary to everything that’s happened since he entered the kitchen might show.

Kagami has an incredibly strong grip. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Adrien, and I’m sorry my husband is an _idiot_ who failed to tell me just who I was sent to cock-block _._ ”

Sure enough, Luka is standing ever-so-casually against the kitchen entryway, thoroughly pleased with Kagami’s reaction. Oh, fuck, how much of their conversation have they actually seen? Luka presses a finger to his lips: _ssshhhh._

“So what, it’s totally okay to cock-block me, just because I’m not stupidly famous?” Marinette harrumphs.

Kagami responds with a very flat, “Yes, because I know you well enough that I can laugh at your expense.”

“I’m deeply sorry I was too busy canoodling to offer you a proper greeting when you first came in,” he says, inclining his head to indicate his sincerest apologies, and when he looks up, she’s wearing the tightest smirk. Ah, yes. She is _definitely_ a rich kid. He knows that look. She’s doing cartwheels of pure delight inside her head right now that she is completely unwilling, and possibly tragically unable, to admit to.

“Well, Marinette brings that out in people,” she says, angling that smirk towards said-subject, but it’s him she’s waggling a finger at. “You’re ob _scene_ ly tall, so you’re the man for the job. Come on, then, nobody eats for free at this party but the birthday girl--especially not _you,_ Trust Fund.”

Adrien starts, turning an incredulous grin on Marinette, but Marinette has got her face covered with her hands again.

Kagami strolls out, but not without reaching sideways to shove Luka back against the wall with the full force of her flattened palm. 

“I couldn’t resist,” Luka shrugs. “Sorry.”

Adrien pats his shoulder. “Carpe diem.”

“Carpe diem,” Luka nods back, but he’s looking at Marinette, not him, and if Adrien isn’t mistaken, he’s brimming with pride.

\--

Adrien is hanging fairy lights.

Adrien Agreste, who has just cuddled Marinette in the kitchen, is helping Kagami hang fairy lights in her bakery.

\--

“Where is Kim?” 

“He’s still in the bathroom.”

“He’s going to miss it!”

“Well, we can’t very well walk in there and drag him out.”

“We could ask Alya and Nino to wait a little while…”

“Asking Alya to wait? You _must_ be new.”

“I very obviously _am,_ Bague-inette.”

“Bague-inette. Hmm. That’s pretty clever. I prefer Mar-eclaire myself.”

“Oh, that’s really cute.”

“Too late, Adrien. No recycling food-related nicknames.”

“I wasn’t aware I was going to have to follow such strict _rules_ to be allowed into this exclusive friendship club.”

Smitten giggling. “If you think _that’s_ strict…”

“Marinette, keep it in your pants.”

 _“Kagami._ ”

“Actual paperwork exists to prove it isn’t your job to defend her honor anymore, Pick.”

“But seriously, Kim is going to be really annoyed if he misses this.”

“It’s just going to be Alya faking surprise anyway. It’s Kim’s fault for drinking like 17 beers already.”

“What are we going to say?”

More giggling. “We don’t have to rehearse ‘ _surprise!’_ if that’s what you’re getting at, Monsieur Diva.”

“Marinette, you have reached your giggling quota. You are done for the night. We are not fourteen years old.”

Silence.

“Wait, how does wanting to rehearse make me a diva?”

“We’re just jumping up and yelling ‘surprise!’ when they come in.”

“ _Thank you,_ Luka. I’m glad _someone_ cares if I’m included.”

“Kim’s going to care that he hasn’t been.”

“Oh my gosh, Marinette, chill.”

“ _You_ chill!”

“I am SO chill right now.”

“Damnit, now _I_ kind of need to go to the bathroom.”

“Luka. No.”

“Do we pull our poppers _during_ ‘surprise,’ or after?”

“During.” 

“No, after.”

“What? That’s dumb. During.”

“Yeah, during is better. It’s more dynamic.”

“Thank you for your support, dear husband.”

“Adrien, you’re making me nervous.”

“You’re making _me_ nervous--”

The lights switch on. Everyone jumps up. “SURPRISE!” they all yell. Marinette’s popper goes off late.

“Oh, crap,” says Kim, gnawing on a macaron that is supposed to be for tomorrow’s clearance batch. “Did I ruin it?”

Collective sighs.

“Okay, resume positions.”

\--

Nino sends a text saying Alya’s being kept late at work, because some breaking news story just came up...or at least, that’s what he _thinks_ is happening, “everyone’s really confused,” his message says, so it’s going to be a while. 

They give up on the whole surprise thing. Alya promises to bring an extra bottle of bubbly, just in case they drink it all without her.

(She won’t be able to; all of the shops are closed by now.)

“Ah well, at least the lights look good,” Kagami shrugs, bouncing up to brush herself off. “Who wants wine?”  
Everyone, barring Kim, raises their hands.

\--

Adrien is perched on a chair by the window while Marinette is in the kitchen putting all the food in the oven to keep it warm. Kagami had poured him an extremely generous glass of a very pale malbec, and he sips it delicately, surprised to find that it’s almost stingingly citrusy-sweet. He wonders what the heck it is he’s actually drinking, because it definitely is _not_ a “deep Argentinian creation,” but that question is answered fairly quickly.

“Hey, man. You liking the drinks?” 

“It’s an interesting blend,” Adrien smiles politely at the mass of muscle that is the famed, storied Kim. “Is it some type of sangria?”

“Um,” Kim frowns. “I dunno, the bottle was like three-quarters full, so I made it into punch.”  
“Oh wow, inside the bottle? That’s so handy.”

“Yeah, I use a funnel, and then I kinda--” He mimes shaking it. He somehow manages to make it obscene, though he definitely doesn’t mean to. “That’s what we used to do in uni.”

Adrien presses his lips together to keep his expression serious. He wonders if Kagami knows that. She almost certainly does, now that she’s put away more than he has. “Oh! Well, it’s very refreshing. Can I ask what’s in it?”

“Well, _wine_ , yeah? And some blue curacao, and then just an eensie splash of Spirytus.”

“How much is a splash?”

“I dunno. Too much, probably.”

Adrien blinks at his glass. That explains a lot.

“I’m Kim,” he says. “You’re Marinette’s guy, huh?”

“I am,” Adrien gestures for him to take the chair opposite. “Adrien.” 

Kim drops into it, manspreading like he invented it. “Kim,” he says again. “How’d you guys meet?”

“Oh, I just stopped by the other morning, and she sold me brioche.”

“Oh yeah, Tom’s brioche is the best. That’d make anybody fall in love. _Everybody’s_ been in love with Mari, man, trust me, and it’s all food-related.” 

“Tom is her father?”

“Yeah, you should totally meet him. He’s the _best_. We were here, like, everyday in lycee. Basically all of us have worked here at one time or another.”

Adrien imagines the chaos of that; how fun it must’ve been. “That’s amazing. That’s quite a unique experience.”

“It was,” Kim grins at some un-shared memory, taking a long pull off a dented can of Carlsberg. “So what do you do? You a baker too, like Mari?”

Adrien blinks at him in disbelief he hopes isn’t too obvious. “Ah, no. These days, mainly I act; sometimes I still do a bit of modeling on the side.”

“Oh, good idea, stretch your options,” Kim nods sagely. “Hustling. We’ve all been there, am I right?”

The wine in Adrien’s glass reflects the sparkling blue and white of the fairy lights above them, and the metallic sheen of the streamers. He wonders if that’s why Kim is asking him this, because he can’t see very well under their colorful, but dim, glow. 

...Adrien can see _Kim_ pretty clearly, though. They aren’t _that_ dim.

“Yes. The hustle. Hmmm.”

“I did some modeling back in the day. You know, commercial stuff. Mostly for Mari,” Kim goes on, scratching his nose, pulling the window shade up just a bit to peer into the streets outside. “Have you seen her clothes? She’s like, real professional. I bet if you point at anything she’s wearing, she made it.”

Adrien takes another drink. He wonders if she’ll show him her designs. “I can’t wait to see more of her work.”

“Yeah, the world of fashion is a _bitch_ though. Those guys, they don’t know a damned thing. She should have a boutique by now, but you know how it is with the glitterati elite. They’re all sharks, man. Scared of competition.”

The wine doesn’t quite shoot out of Adrien’s nose, but it very nearly does. Is he messing with him right now? “That’s very insightful.”

“ _Totally._ I know _you_ know. Preaching to the choir,” Kim drops the shade, and turns back to him. “So how’s the acting? You know, like, can you live on that salary? I've done music videos and stuff. Not recently, but back in the day.”

He isn’t messing with him. He’s _serious._ Adrien ducks his grin behind a hand, pretending to rub at his nose. So _this_ is why Nino had yelled at him on the phone when he’d thought he was Kim. Because Kim is Kim. Right. “I’m comfortable, thank you.”

“Dude, all those guys I knew in college, that did theatre and film and stuff? They’re struggling so bad. It’s such a tough business, even if you’ve got connections. My buddy Nate does animation; he makes an okay amount. I feel for them, cuz it’s like, I get how you have to follow your passions, but...god, how do you live, right?”

Adrien has to suppress the laughter that is really threatening to come out now--not because he doesn’t agree with what Kim is saying, but because he’s saying it to _him_. “I know, it’s really hard. You have to be so lucky. It’s really unforgiving.”

That definitely isn’t a lie, and he’s always felt that the business is completely unfair, of course, but...well. Adrien’s face is on a billboard that is literally half a block away from the bakery. Adrien pours yet more death punch into his mouth. He’s nearly to the bottom of the glass. It’s starting to go to his head.

“So you look pretty commercial too. You on TV and stuff?”

“No, no. I’m in films now, mostly.”

“Oh, dude! Good job! That’s awesome. Would I have seen anything you’re in?”

Adrien actually does start snickering then. “Oh...maybe; maybe not.”

“Ah, we should have like, a viewing party! Maybe we can do like, a whole thing, get all the friends together, put up a screen and stuff.”

“Kim. That is a _fantastic_ idea.” says Adrien.

“Right? So fun.” Kim toasts him. He fucking toasts him. “I kinda want to like, get back into it, but...you know. Not if I can’t support myself. So what did you make on your last gig? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Adrien drains his glass. 

“Sixteen million dollars.”

Kim spit-takes. “What?”

“ _American_ dollars, so I lost a bit, converting that to euro,” he says. “But yeah, sixteen, give or take.”

Kim stares at him, brows furrowing. 

Adrien holds his gaze.

“So that’s…” Kim coughs, “pretty good then.”

Adrien continues smiling, and then he stands up. “You want a glass?”

“...uh...yeah, yeah. Cool. Thanks.”

\--

They’re already well on their way to tipsy by the time Alya and Nino finally show up. Alya looks absolutely exhausted, and Nino’s carrying a bag of hamburgers.

“We got this in case you guys ate everything already,” Nino says, shrugging. 

“We didn’t,” Marinette reassures him, kissing his cheek first, and then Alya’s. “Don’t worry. And we haven’t touched the champagne.”

“Surprise,” says Kagami flatly, from where she’s perched on the counter with her vape. Luka is painting her fingernails with a Sharpie like they’re twelve. 

“Hi guys,” Luka grins at them, and his teeth are blue from UV Vodka. It perfectly compliments his hair. “Happy birthday, Lyly.”

“Thanks, you guys, this is _so_ nice of you,” she says. “It looks beautiful, too. Sorry we’re so late. It has been a _day._ ”

“No worries,” Marinette says, hugging her. “Go sit, we’ll bring you food.”

“Where’s your guy?” Alya asks as she settles down in her chair.

“Oh, he just ran upstairs; he’ll be down in a sec. I think he might be feeling a bit sick,” She rolls her eyes. “Kim spiked the wine and none of us realized until it was too late.”

“Ah yes. A typical night with the crew.”

“Um.” Marinette swallows. “Not...really.”

“Dude, the weirdest thing happened tonight,” Alya drops her bag on the floor, and Nino jogs up to his room to bring down the fancy champagne. “So you know how I met Chloe Bourgeois the other day at that book signing?”

The instant sickness in Marinette’s stomach has nothing to do with Kim’s stupid death punch, and everything to do with how much she already knows where Alya’s going with this.

“Well, apparently she thinks I’m amazing,” Alya says, and Marinette’s eyebrows shoot up into her hair. Maybe she _doesn’t_ know where this is going. “Her publicist called me this evening and we were on the phone for _ages_ sorting some mix-up with the magazine, though, because for some reason they were all convinced I work for _L'agriculteur Progressiste_.”

“Yeah,” Marinette says. “Uh. I. I might know a little bit about that.”

“Oh, did Nino tell you already?” Alya tilts her head, peering up so sweetly and innocently at Marinette.

“Um. Well.” 

...yeah, that look lasts less than three seconds.

“Marinette. What did you do.”

“It was all such a mess, Alya, I can’t even--remember that, um, that call Nino forgot to give me?”

“Yeah, the prank call.”

“It wasn’t from Kim.”

“Who _was_ it from?”

Marinette shifts uneasily. “You can’t be mad that I didn’t tell you, okay, because--because I _couldn’t._ ”

“...The sofa guy.”

Marinette swallows.

“The blond sofa guy, that definitely wasn’t...someone...famous...”

Marinette nods.

Alya’s eyes widen. “... _wait._ ”

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT! _SAILOR VENUS!_ ”

Everyone in the bakery stops and stares in the direction of the stairwell, except for Marinette, who faceplants into the wall.

“ _No way,_ ” goes Alya.

Pounding footsteps explode down toward them, and then Nino emerges.

“Do you understand,” he pants, “who is in our bathroom?”

“Yes,” Luka, Kagami, and Marinette reply, some (Marinette) more giving-up-on-life-y than others.

Nino sputters for a few seconds. He throws his hands first in the air, then smacks the top of his head with them, then throws them out towards the room at large in the gesture universally acknowledged to signify that he is begging for answers. “ _HOW? HOW IS HE IN OUR BATHROOM?_ ”

“If it soothes you, at all, Nino,” says Kagami dryly, “he _isn’t_ in the bathroom anymore.”

Nino whirls around to find Adrien behind him, arms curled somewhat protectively around himself. Nino proceeds to grab him by the shoulders and thrust him out in front of him, attempting to offer definitive proof of the existence of, well...sailor scouts, apparently.

“LOOK AT HIM,” Nino commands.

“Hello again, everyone,” Adrien says, cheeks ever-so-slightly wine pink. “Hello, Alya. I am so sorry,” he tries to swallow down his slightly hysterical laughter, which comes up in a burst. “It’s _wonderful_ to meet you. Happy Birthday.”

“.......thanks?” Alya actually takes off her glasses to wipe them off, replacing them a few seconds later. She stands very, very slowly, as though Nino has presented them with some sort of feral animal. 

“Everything cool in here?” says Kim, poking his head in from the front door, because he’d been outside...doing something.

“Nino, _let go of him,_ ” Marinette hisses. 

“Oh!” Nino startles, jerking away, realizing what he’s just done. “Oh my god, oh, I’m so sorry, man--”

“It’s okay,” Adrien nods, rubbing himself gingerly. “I’ve been waiting to meet you ever since you walked right past me while I was sitting on your sofa, and then you called me a jerk.”

“You are _not_ a jerk, but I: _I_ am an _IDIOT,_ ” Nino declares. “You’re like, man, you’re amazing. You’re one of my favorite actors of all time. Like, they don’t know this,” he points to the room at large, “but I wrote _comics_ about you, man--not weird stuff, like _good_ stuff--back when that first movie came out. I got, like, _a lot_ of hits. The comics weren’t about _you,_ I mean, they were about Chat Noir--”

“-- _what_?” bark Alya and Marinette at the same time.

“Who?” says Kim.

“Why.” Luka and Kagami murmur.

“--and I know that’s super weird, but you give off this _vibe_ , like, I feel like I get you, man. You’re my inspiration, I swear, and the only reason she--” he jerks a nod at Alya “--doesn’t know that, is because I am like, too jealous to be in the same room while she watches you, because she’s _totally_ into you. Always has been.”

“Oh, Nino,” says Adrien, with deep, genuine concern. “That could be a bit of a problem tonight.” 

“But it’s _not,_ because you’re with Marinette!” Nino cries, overflowing with joy. “And she’s like, my baby sister--”

“--Nino, _no--_ ” Marinette begs.

“She’s older than you,” says Luka, conversationally.

“--so if you marry her, and oh man, you _should_ marry her, she is the best human in the entire world and we all love her; she is literally everyone’s favorite, and, just FYI, if you _marry_ her, you’ll be my _brother._ ”

“That is a wonderful thought, Nino,” says Adrien, slowly inching away.

“What is _happening_?” says poor Alya.

“Bro,” says Nino, throwing his arms around Adrien.

“Okay! We’re hugging now!” Adrien says, staring desperately at Marinette, and mouthing, _help me._

“You handle your man, I’ll handle mine,” Alya says to Marinette, who twitches in response, before doing precisely that. 

Adrien is actually sweating a little when Marinette gingerly takes his hand in her own, leading him into the safety of the kitchen.

“Wait, Nino writes comics?” says Kim, distantly.

Marinette questions every single one of the choices she’s made in her life.

\--

When Marinette has Adrien safely cloistered in the kitchen, settling him into nice mindless tasks--pouring out the champagne, and reheating the food, in _peace--_ she drags everyone upstairs. 

“So,” she says sharply, addressing them all with her hands on her hips, “this isn’t going terribly, but it is no longer going _well,_ is it? I _know_ I should’ve warned you guys, but--I didn’t, because I am A FAILURE, so. SO.” She points at Nino. “You. Be normal.” Next comes Kim. “ _You._ If a drink doesn’t already contain vodka, do _not_ add vodka.” Then comes Kagami. “Stop trying to prove you’re cooler than him; you already are.” Then Luka. “You’re fine, but stop psychoanalyzing him, it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t realize you’re doing it because _I DO_ ; you can write a song for him some other night, okay? When you haven’t just met him?” Luka puffs up just slightly at that, muttering something about how he can’t figure Adrien out, how could he possibly _improvise a song_ for him? (Even Luka is still feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges from Kim’s poison). “Alya. You’re perfect and I love you. Change nothing.” Marinette heaves a sigh. “I’m so sorry I hijacked your birthday.”

Alya takes two seconds to stare hard at Marinette’s face, before she exhales through her nose, and--

\--and then she starts jumping up and down.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Alya whisper-screams, trying to keep her voice low. “Are you _kidding me?_ You land me a one-on-one exclusive interview with Chloe, notorious press-hater, who _suddenly loves me,_ and then you show up with _Adrien Agreste_ to _MY_ PARTY?!!” The bouncing increases in intensity. “THIS IS THE BEST BIRTHDAY EVER.”

“Nooooooo, Alya, not you too!”

Maybe if Marinette gets, like, a rope from somewhere, and...disguises Adrien in one of her old Halloween costumes, maybe the stupid banana one she wore back in 2012, she can sneak Adrien up to the roof, and they can use the rope to scale the wall, and they can call G, and they can catch a train to the airport, and they can tell the people at the ticketing desks their names are Angelica and Martin Lawrence: completely inconsequential Canadian bear wrestlers, after which they will fly to Alert, where they will build a cabin in the middle of the snow where their only neighbor is a very angry muskox. They will adopt the muskox, and name him Percy. He will be their substitute hamster. Marinette will knit him muskox jumpers. Adrien will wear many flannel shirts. Only the ground will judge them, because Alert is so remote trees don’t even grow there, and Percy is too worried about...surviving the arctic winter probably to bother with petty human affairs. They will never have to see another human being ever again. 

“Oh my god, oh my _god,_ ” Alya breaks through Marinette’s spiral, _“he’s going to be our friend!”_

“Adrien is _not_ going to be our friend if we don’t start treating him like he’s a human being!”

“His humanity is up for debate. His skin is too perfect,” Kagami rolls her eyes. “Maybe he’s a _dolphin._ ”

They all stare at her. 

“I’ll get her some water,” Luka says, and he goes to Marinette’s sink.

“Oh, I’m not drunk,” Kagami says. “I just really enjoy the chaos.”

“Wait, so that guy down there is _Adrien Agreste?!!_ Like from _HOLLYWOOD?”_ Kim blurts out, and they all shush him. “Oh god,” he moans. 

“Why, what did _you_ do?” Marinette snarls.

“Oh, you don’t want to know.”

Alya grabs her by the elbows. “Marinette, are you _with him_ now?”

“So much,” Kagami says sagely. “They were basically making out in the kitchen.”

“What? _No,_ we were _not,_ we were just _talking_ \--”

“Yes. Body-talking.” Kagami says.

“Are you _twelve?_ ”

Kagami flips her hair.

“I was _hugging_ him, you _crazy_ , because he _needs hugs._ ”

“You told me he was a _YouTuber,_ ” Nino accuses, but he’s joined in with Alya's jumping, so he is very clearly not upset.

“Of course I did!” Marinette snaps. “Do you see how you’re acting? He probably thinks you’re completely nuts; you didn’t even _notice_ him in your sitting room a few days ago, and now you’re his biggest fan?!!” Nino winces. “I brought him tonight because he wanted to come with me, and he wanted to meet you, and you’re--you’re all being DUMB. I would’ve expected this kind of nonsense from _myself,_ but not from YOU GUYS.”  
  
“He wanted to meet _us_?” Alya gasps. “Oh my god, I have been trying to land that interv--”

“Alya. Do _not_ mention an interview,” Marinette moans. “ _Please._ Be chill for at least six more months, then _maybe_ I’ll broach the idea with him.”

“Oh, I know how to act around famous people,” Alya scoffs. “I’ll be normal on the outside, but on the _inside,_ I am _celebrating._ ”

Luka passes the glass of water to Kagami. She presses a kiss to his face, and downs the whole thing in one go. Not drunk, Marinette’s left foot. ““Six months from now, aye, Mari? Sounds serious,” Luka says, and he’s smiling that INFURIATING little smile that says her fucking _heart song_ is a banger.

They all gape at Marinette like she’s a Kardashian-status luggage set needing to be unpacked.

“Yes, six months from now, Luka,” Marinette sags. “But if the last ten minutes are any indication, we’re not going to last six more _hours,_ so--”

“Holy crap, you’re serious about him,” Nino says, wondrously. “Like, you are actually _with-him_ with-him.”

Marinette fidgets nervously. “I--maybe,” she says quietly.

Then comes a soft little voice: “Hey, guys? Um. Sorry to break up the...meeting, but I was getting the tarts out of the oven, and I kind of...burnt...everything.”

It’s Adrien. His torso and head are halfway through the doorway, and if Marinette reads the twitch in his right eyebrow correctly, he is miserable.

“Oh, Adrien,” Marinette sighs. “What happened?”

He sighs back, a bit uselessly. “I have been awake since four a.m.,” he says, “and I’ve never used an oven before.”

Why do they have so many questions about not being able to use an oven? Why is that something her friends want information about?

Right, Marinette thinks, Canada’s off. The Estonian convent it is. Goodbye, life. Goodbye, love.

“I mean, I know how to hotwire a car,” Adrien says. “I did it once….for a...” he pouts. “...for a role.”

Nino steps forward, silencing everyone. “Listen, it’s all good. _Everything_ is good. I got you bro. There’s a 24 hour kebab place around the corner. You like lamb?”

Adrien smiles sheepishly at all of them. “I love lamb,” he says. “And, uh. It’s on me, obviously.”

Nino touches his shoulder. “ _No,_ it’s the least I can do,” he says heroically. “It’s on _me._ ” 

\--

The stern talking-to seems to have worked its magic. They are now gathered around the table they’ve formed of a cluster of much smaller tables, paper kebab boxes and little tubs of sauce and garnish heaped up on every available centimeter, and nobody is acting stupid and weird anymore. 

The group is asking Adrien normal questions now...stuff about what it was like to be homeschooled, if he likes living in LA, if he watches sports. He and Kagami geek out for a bit over fencing, and Alya and Nino tell their engagement story again, even though Adrien had already heard it in the elevator, because _“Marinette never gets the part about Nino’s shoe right._ ” 

Adrien keeps a tight grip on Marinette’s hand through the entire meal, because, she realizes dazedly, he’s a little nervous, now that he’s totally screwed up dinner. He never has to say it, either; it is obvious in the way he’s answering every single question so perfectly, in the almost too-photogenic smiles, and in the self-effacing way he responds to anything regarding his fame. Kim apologizes like eight times, and after each statement, Adrien apologizes to _him_ for whatever he’d done in response, which Marinette guesses isn’t half of what Kim deserved. It rapidly devolves into an apology-off, which Nino finally puts to rest by smacking Kim upside the head.

“I was worse than _both of you,_ ” Nino snaps. “Stop trying to upstage me.”

“I don’t know,” Luka says softly. “ _I_ tricked Kagami into ruining their first real hug, so.”

“What?” Marinette blinks at him. “How did you know it was…”

Luka shrugs, running his hand through his wife’s hair. “We know you pretty well, Marinette.” Kagami laughs a little, because yeah, that’s true. “I win,” he says simply.

“You _definitely_ win,” Adrien agrees, and he and Luka share quite an understanding little look, whatever _that’s_ about, as Adrien squeezes Marinette’s hand.

As soon as the kebabs are pushed away, they play a rousing game of Uno, which Alya wins as always. Nino, who has settled considerably since rescuing Adrien, suggests they just leave the decorations up for tomorrow and do dessert and bubbly upstairs. Nobody objects to that; the sofa will be more comfortable. 

They pack up all the carry-out containers, and clean up the kitchen; as Nino bends to scoop Adrien’s mess out of the oven, Adrien passes him the kitchen roll, and Nino apologizes sincerely this time for being a weirdo to him.

“Don’t think less of Marinette because of us, dude, and especially not _me,_ ” he says, voice bouncing around inside the oven. “We’re all cool. Like, it’s pretty obvious you go through a lot of shit just trying to be a person, so. I mean, nobody’s gonna talk about you or put photos of you on Instagram or anything. We might be kind of crazy, but we love her, so if she loves you, you’re one of us, and we take care of our own, you know?”

Marinette watches the way Adrien processes that; he doesn’t realize she’s watching him. She can see that he’s genuinely touched.

Adrien reassures him it’s fine; he tells him a story about how the first time he’d met Harrison Ford, he was so excited he threw up on his shoes. (What he doesn’t tell Nino is that he was five when it happened, of course.) Nino is so moved that Adrien has shared this that _he_ tells Adrien about the first time he’d met Marinette: he was being bullied, and when Marinette punched the other kid in the face (she’d been a bit scrappy back then), Nino was so stressed out and freaked about the whole thing he’d thrown up on _her_ when she checked to see if he was okay.

It’s a weird thing to bond over, and Marinette might’ve missed it happening, if she hadn’t chosen that exact time to look up from the fridge. 

When Adrien catches her, he ducks his head, hand flying up to rub the back of his neck. She gives him a hearty thumbs-up, and then promptly spills an entire kebab container.

When they are all settled in the sitting room, Marinette places a platter of assorted tarts before them. Kim pops the champagne, and Luka begins plucking placidly at his guitar. It’s much more comfortable and less weird-feeling than the bakery had been; in the familiar buttery light of her sitting room, seeing her friends squished together in their usual places, while she and Adrien sit with their legs tangled on the floor under the coffee table. It feels, indeed, like any other Saturday night with her people. 

Adrien slowly begins to relax, and, much to Marinette’s relief, so does _she._

There comes a bit of a lull in the conversation, as Marinette begins drifting in and out of consciousness, head lolling comfortably on Adrien’s shoulder, when Alya decides to bring out their old lycee photos. She explains, quite placidly, that if Adrien is going to be part of their group, he needs to be properly educated in their history. 

Of course Marinette’s photo is the first one she flips to. “Okay,” she says, pointing. “Look at her. Three seconds after this? She fell off the stage.” She grins. “ _That_ is how she got that scar on her left wrist.”

Marinette’s eyes fly open, because she knows exactly which photo Alya is showing him.

She watches Adrien lean over the table, pushing hair out of his eyes to peer at what she’s just presented. He holds the photo up, squinting. 

There, pinched between his thumb and index finger, is a photo of Marinette at the first design competition she’d ever won. She is dressed head-to-toe in red; that jumpsuit, with its palazzo flares and turtleneck, had been her favorite piece for a very long time. It was a Gabriel, and everyone had pitched in money to buy it for her birthday that year; she still has it somewhere, packed away in a box. Luka had spent three months busking every day after school for his part of the gift; Kagami, admittedly, had paid more than anyone else, though no one has ever admitted just how much that part actually was. They’d all worked extremely hard to get it for her, and she still isn’t entirely sure why they did. 

In the photo, her hair is parted into two sleek pigtails, tied in ribbons, because she’d always worn it that way then. In her outstretched hands is the piece that won her her first design competition: the feathered bowler. Gabriel Agreste himself had chosen it, and up til that week, it was the closest she’d ever come to meeting her design hero.

“Doesn’t she look just like Ladybug?” Alya laughs. 

“Al _ya._ Don’t be weird.”

“Oh,” Adrien blinks at it. “I was there.”

“You were?” Marinette screeches. “ _What?_ ” She blinks at him. “I never met you! Do you…” Her voice drops to a little whimper “...remember me?”

Adrien smiles softly at her. “No,” he says with a remorseful sigh, “but I _do_ remember that hat.”

Marinette feels butterflies start jetting around in her chest. 

Alya and Nino pause where they are gnawing on their tarts; even Luka misses a note. 

“My father still has that,” he says. “It’s in storage, but he still has it.”

The roaring in Marinette’s ears is so loud she thinks she might actually pass out. “No way.”

A beat.

Then another.

“No, Bague-inette, of course not!” Adrien laughs brilliantly, giving her a little push. “Marinette, that hat is _literally_ on a mannequin in your room right now; I saw it when I came in to tell you about the oven!”

"You just PRANKED me!" Marinette roars, huge smile splitting her whole face as her heart explodes into sparkles. "The _audacity!_ " She grabs Adrien by the shoulders and kisses his cheek as punishment.

The group loses their shit.

“Dude, that was the craziest fake-out I’ve ever seen!” Nino crows.

“Actors are _terrifying,_ ” Kim says. “How did you _do_ that?”

“It’s my job,” Adrien shrugs. 

Marinette is still blinking at him in hysterical wonder when he bends to whisper softly into her ear, “I _do_ remember the hat. It’s kind of amazing.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adrien is a little overwhelmed. Of course he hadn’t been expecting _quite_ the level of insanity that had started off the night, and he certainly hadn’t expected to be thrown for an emotional loop by people he’s known for literal hours, and by all rights he should be having a terrible time, but...but he isn’t. On the contrary, he feels safe, and happy, and warm. 

...the warmth might be the after-effects of Kim’s CRIMINAL bartending, and the second glass of champagne he’s put away, but he suspects it isn’t. 

He knows all about found families, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been privy to one; not a real-life one. He certainly never has been invited to be _part_ of one. It’s kind of boggling that they are so comfortable with each other, that Marinette, Kagami, and Luka can so easily touch each other and laugh and mess around, given their history, whatever the details of it might be; Nino and Alya are almost stupidly cute together, but not in an exclusionary way, and Kim is surprisingly genuine and open, though that might be because he is the first person Adrien has ever met who didn’t instantly recognize him. 

As they regale him with stories of their misspent youth, he finds himself wishing desperately that he’d been part of it. They are so animated, and so excited to talk about each other, and it blows his mind how, when they do, they are never unkind; never sharp or judgy or mean-spirited. When Kim recounts how he’d accidentally broken Nino’s ankle in a game of football, everyone rushes to explain that it was all because Kim was just that much more athletic than they were. After Alya spends some time moaning about accidentally stealing Nino from Marinette while they were supposed to be on a date, Marinette credits herself for _finally_ hooking them up. They are so supportive. They talk up each other’s talents and personalities and looks, but not in grand, fake gestures, like they’re trying to get anything out of it; Kagami casually drops a comment about how beautiful Marinette’s hair has always been, and Nino talks almost longingly about the song he wants Luka to play for his and Alya’s procession. 

They’re so nice.

“Okay, guys,” Alya says, holding up the tart tray. “Last tart. You know what time it is.”

“Ah, yes, the Tournament of Self-Pity,” Kagami claps her hands. “I’m going to win this time.”

“You _always_ win,” Kim huffs. “I don’t know, I think tonight I’ve got this one in the bag.”

“Sorry, the what?” Adrien leans forward, gently rousing Marinette to wakefulness again. She yawns hugely.

“It’s how we complain about stuff. We fight to tell the saddest story about ourselves to determine who gets the last bit of dessert,” Marinette explains, rubbing her eyes, and smudging her mascara. He sweeps the black streak away with the pad of his thumb. She smiles up at him, mirroring the gesture, even though he knows damn well his makeup is fine. 

"Hi," she says, still sleepy.  
  
"Hi," he says back.

“ _O-_ kay, Marinette’s automatically disqualified,” Nino says, grinning, and they all chuckle at her.

“Aw, come _on,_ ” Marinette sighs, though from the way she’s still looking at Adrien, it is clear she couldn’t complain about anything if she wanted to. She looks so happy.

“I’m out too,” Alya says, tossing her napkin on the table. “Life’s too good at the moment; I am _deeply_ sorry to say I have no worries.”

Nino clears his throat. “Right! Me first, then. I'm gonna lose, but I want to pout.” He rubs his hands together. “ _I_ am a thirty year-old DJ who hasn’t been booked for a party now in six months. Today was my first gig, which I was gonna do for _free,_ and I couldn’t even spin, because I showed up too late, and everybody was already too exhausted to dance. I proceeded to embarrass myself in front of my childhood hero, I still can’t afford to book a venue for my own wedding, my credit is so bad that I can’t rent an apartment, thus forcing me to mooch off of my best friend and beloved fiance, and I am currently not speaking to my mom, who is my favorite person in the world, and it’s my fault. Although going into the details might increase my chances of tart-winning, I...won’t.” He takes a bow. Everyone claps for him. 

“Nice try, nice try,” says Kagami. “My turn.” She clears her throat. “Right. So. Luka and I found a leak in the boat today, hence why I dropped all of this--” she gestures at everything “--into your laps. It destroyed my computer, which I can’t afford to replace at the moment, because after all of those bills I missed back in 2018, _thank-you, Mother,_ the monthly payments for my student loan and credit cards are so catastrophically high that even my lawyer's salary leaves me with no disposable income, meaning, of course, that I have to rely on Luka to cover it for me. _Again._ ”

“We’ll help you out, Kagami, you know that--” Marinette starts, but Kagami shushes her with a finger.

“ _No_ , I want that tart, you know the rules,” she sniffs. Adrien watches Luka set down his guitar to pull her into his lap. She adjusts herself accordingly. “Not only did this occur at all, I failed to notice the water leaking in until it had almost destroyed a bunch of Luka’s family photos, because I have been awake for three days in a row now trying to figure out how the hell I am supposed to defend an actual murderer, who I _know_ is guilty, and I am considering dropping the case completely, which, given that it would be the third time since joining the firm that I’ve refused a client, means that they, like all the firms before them, will let me go. I am now re-evaluating my career choice, and I am terrified.” Everyone watches her with gentle sympathy. She sighs, drooping for just a second, before she begins clapping for herself in quite a regal fashion, prompting everyone to join in.

“Yep. I think I might ACTUALLY be able to follow that,” Kim says. “I’m feeling really good about my chances, guys.”

“Kim! Kim! Kim!” everyone starts chanting. He clears his throat loudly.

“SO.” He tips his head back. “Okay, dudes, prepare yourselves.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he seems to be somewhere far, far away. Hmm. Maybe he does actually have a bit of the performer’s spark. “So this morning, right, I get into work, and my boss informs me that I have been fired.” He holds his hands out, encouraging further applause. “Yes, yes, okay, so that’s super sucky, right? Right. So I ask him why. He tells me it’s because I got caught stealing money from the register last week. I go, what the hell? Cuz you know I’d never do that, and he knows I’d never do that.” Everyone offers fierce agreement, extolling his virtues. “Right. So I look into it further, you know, dig around a little. Turns out he thinks I’ve been having an affair with his wife, and he’s been trying to get rid of me for weeks. I go what are you talking about? I don’t even know your wife.” His face falls. “Turns out I do. Turns out _my girlfriend_ is his wife--” They all gasp. “So not only, _yes_ , I have _definitely_ been having an affair with his wife, because we have been together now for eight months, it turns out I’m not the only guy she’s been hooking up with, and-- _and!--_ now that she got caught, she doesn’t want anything to do with me, and _that’s_ why I haven’t heard from her since Sunday.”

“Jesus, Kim,” Alya says. 

“The most ironic part of all of this,” Kim goes on, big burly man voice cracking, “is I don’t even want to break up with her.” 

Luka scowls. “That is bullshit.”

“Dude,” says Nino quietly, “I always thought it was real suss she never wanted to meet us.”

“Yeah, Kim, you’re much better off without that drama in your life,” Alya says, petting his hand.

“I mean, at least he let me bring all these drinks home,” Kim says, and it’s a bit watery, and Marinette passes him a napkin to wipe his face with.

A moment passes. “So, Luka.” Kim says. “You taking a shot?”

Luka hooks his chin over Kagami’s shoulder, attention fixed to the table. “I mean, I _do_ want that tart,” he says slowly.

“Dude, go for it,” Kim brusques, brushing his tears away with a grunt. “I don’t even care about the tart, I just wanted to bitch.” He grins apologetically at Marinette. “No offence.”

“Oh, _Kim,_ ” Marinette sniffles a little.

“So um, there’s obviously the boat thing,” Luka starts tentatively, “but...you know we’ve been trying to have a baby.”

Adrien’s breath stutters. Dear god.

“Turns out we can’t,” he says, “and it’s my fault.” Kagami squeezes the arms he has around her waist, and presses her cheek into his. “Thing is, there might’ve been some glimmer of hope that, you know, with the treatments and stuff, maybe that wouldn’t be the case, but I can’t continue the treatments, because they make me feel terrible.” He sighs in defeat. “Annoying thing is, I’ve started smoking again,” nobody tells him off for this, “ _but_ , as it turns out, I’m going to have to put Kagami through yet another withdrawal period, because all those tests I had, you know, _also_ led to _more_ tests; some of which showing I do, indeed, have the genetic markers for Mom’s cancer, and I don’t exactly want to play _that_ lottery. So. Even if I _could_ have a son, how long would I be able to stick around for him, anyway?”

“Luka, _no,_ ” Marinette moans, hands flying up to cover her mouth in horror.

“Oh my god,” Alya gasps.

Kagami, stony faced, with her attention fixed on the table, allows one small tear to escape down her cheek.

Luka ruminates on that for a while, before he shrugs. “Sorry everyone _,_ I’m just being maudlin. Honestly, simply having the genetic tendency might not mean anything for me, and by the time it even hits, who knows how great medicine will be? They might be able to cure it.”

“Bro…” is Nino’s heartbreaking contribution.

“No, no, no, everything’s fine,” Luka waves his hand around. “Give Kim the damned tart.”

Kagami kisses his face anyway.

“I declare Kim the winner,” Nino says, holding Kim’s arm up, but Marinette stops him.

“Wait, hold on,” she says. “You’re not even going to give Adrien a chance to play?”

Everyone scoffs at her, laughing, but she quiets them down. “I’m _serious!_ ” she cries. 

“Yeah, go on, Adrien,” Luka says, as Kagami climbs out of his lap again. “When was the last time you got to complain to a roomful of strangers, and it didn’t wind up on the internet? I mean like _really_ just let it out?”

Adrien wonders at first if Luka’s secretly a complete bastard, but there’s something about the gentleness in his expression that tells Adrien Luka simply understands something about him a near-stranger probably shouldn’t. 

“Oh, I don’t know…” Adrien turns that over in his head. Marinette squeezes Adrien’s wrist. “I mean. I _do_ kind of want that tart.”

“Go for it, man,” Kim says. “Teach us what pain is.”

“Okay, so,” Adrien hums. “Well, for starters, I shouldn’t even _look_ at that tart, because I’ve been on a diet constantly since I was fourteen years old, and if I gain any weight _at all_ , I’m out of a job.” He smiles expectantly, awaiting assessment.

“Nope. No,” Nino says. “You’ve already eaten two, so we know you’re not counting calories tonight.”

“Mmm, okay,” Adrien purses his lips. “I...hmm. Well, my father is cold and loveless, my mother disappeared when I was thirteen, aaaaaand...a shop girl tried to photograph me in my dressing room a few days ago, and when I told her not to, the papers painted me as being a heinous monster that treats service people like garbage.” He smiles at them. “How’s that? Tart-tragic, or just regular-tragic?”

“No, no. Stuff we can’t find about about you on Google. What is really bothering you right now? You’re in a room full of human beings. Be human with us.”

“Ugh, but I am too beautiful to be merely human,” Adrien strikes an operatic pose, mocking himself.

“Kagami,” Marinette warns, but Alya cuts her off. 

“Yes!” Alya cries. “Get it out, boy, this is a safe-space.”

Adrien has to admit, even to himself, that it’s tempting.

“Oooo-kay. I _guess_ I’m game.” 

Cheering erupts.

“Just, um, if you don’t mind,” he clears his throat, “can you turn your phones off, and put them on the table, where I can see them?” He doesn’t like how tellingly wobbly his voice is, but he’s been privy to so many of their secrets, he feels almost as if he owes it to them, and he _can_ always blame the champagne. “Just, you know. So I can make sure none of you are recording anything.” 

Everyone immediately acquiesces.

“ _Bro._ That statement alone is worth at least ten Pity Points,” Nino throws his Samsung across the table like it’s insulted him.

“Don’t worry, Adrien,” Marinette says gently, stroking his back with her press-ons. “You don't have to say anything else, only if you want to...but you can trust us.”

“Everyone says that, Princess,” he says softly, rubbing a lock of her hair between the pad of his thumb and the finger encircled by Chat’s ring. “It’s almost never true.”

“Dude, you can sue us if any of us breathe a single word,” Kim promises, actually crossing his heart. “You can hire Kagami to do it!”

"Pssh," says Kagami, "if I still have a job by then."

“Oh, I know I can, and people like me _do_ , in a _heartbeat._ I could literally ruin all of you with a single word, if I wanted to.” He says that, and it isn’t even a threat; it’s just the truth. “It’s happened before.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Kim, “good thing none of us took any selfies with you,” but Alya looks like she knows _all_ about that. Adrien wonders what her deal is.

There’s no stopping him now, though. It feels so good to say this to anyone; so _liberating._ No, these floodgates aren’t closing again.

“My first adult relationship was with someone named...let's call them Blanc. Blanc and I broke up, and I was young and we were--doing things together I probably shouldn’t have been doing, and photos were leaked, and _Blanc_ made almost forty-thousand dollars off of me.” Adrien goes on. “My father was not pleased. Blanc was an incredibly talented make-up artist, in the very beginning stages of a potentially stellar career, who of course _now_ works at a McDonald’s in Iowa, and still makes monthly payments to our lawyers. Blanc's _children_ will be paying off our lawyers.” Adrien bites his lip. “Thing is, Blanc didn’t deserve that, because those photos were leaked from a phone that was _stolen,_ so it doesn’t really matter if I can trust YOU or not, because I can’t trust anyone _else,_ either. Nevermind of course, basically, that being with me ruined Blanc's life.”

Marinette is staring hard at Alya, who nods. “I remember that happening,” Alya says.

“Yes. Of course you do. Because any time I break up with anyone, or ask someone out, or stand next to someone in a remotely friendly way, someone _else_ is there with a camera, and they splash my heartbreak all over the internet like it’s entertainment. So,” Adrien focuses on his hands now, “that being said, I haven’t ever had a relationship that hasn’t been pecked to death on twitter, which means that any time I am mentioned in the media, _ever,_ which is _constantly,_ those associations are brought back up again, and I can never, _ever_ put them away. I mean, you can threaten people all you want, not to talk about certain things; everyone knows how insane my father is, for example, he will _cut_ you…” Adrien’s jaw twitches, “...but you’d be surprised how vicious something as benign as an insinuation can be when _you're_ the subject of the insinuation.”

The room is very still.

“Now, mind you, I love being famous, because of my constant, never-ending need for validation, and I _really_ love playing Chat Noir,” Adrien goes on, “which becomes immediately apparent to anyone who spends any time with me at all. This _should_ be detracting from my total--what were they? Pity Points, you said?” Nino nods dazedly. “But even _that_ I can’t enjoy completely, because I sometimes can’t _stop_ playing Chat Noir. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I can’t remember who I am without him, because most of the time, I would rather be _him_ . I’ve been through _years_ of therapy, but they can’t properly treat me, because apart from _raging_ abandonment issues and a tendency to be a bit method, which Marinette will soon have the pleasure of dealing with, I don’t fit the bill for any one diagnosis. Now _that_ is publicly available knowledge, so I’m breaking your rule with that one, Kagami. What _isn’t_ publicly available is the fact that the last three relationships I’ve had ended because of it, because I selfishly demand that if you love me, you have to put up with whichever me I feel like being at any given time.” His fingers stretch on Marinette’s knee. “And most people, in my experience, want me to choose one or the other.”

“So do you have superpowers?” Alya asks, but she isn’t making fun of him at all. She means it.

“No, of course not,” Adrien says. “No. But they are very different brands, if you know what I mean; Adrien Agreste and Chat Noir. Some people think they know me, because they know Chat. That’s the version of me they want. _Other_ people want Adrien Agreste. When they find out I am, in fact, neither of those people,” his fists clench, “they do things like tell the paparazzi I’m a _deeply_ troubled soul, etcetera etcetera, which…” He shrugs. “Makes people not want to cast me, much less want to wake up next to me.”

“Dude, you like, created Chat Noir though, right? I mean, he wasn’t even supposed to be punny and stuff,” Nino says, and Alya and Marinette again goggle at his fan-knowledge. “So...why do people freak out, if that’s, you know, part of who you really are?”

“Isn’t it my job, to be who other people want me to be?”

“Your relationships are not your _job,_ ” Marinette gasps, with stunning ferocity.

"Aren't they?"

They're silent.

“Because even though I’m an actor, you guys, I’m supposed to be able to tell the difference between reality and fantasy, aren’t I?”

“But...you can,” Nino insists.

“Can I?” he tilts his head at him. “When your reality is literally every single other person’s fantasy, is there such a thing as reality at all?”

They all stare at him in disbelieving horror, except for Marinette, whose eyes have gone huge and tear-bright and quivering and _enraged_. 

He comes back to himself, staring into them. He takes in an anchoring breath, surveying Marinette’s poor, dumbstruck friends; Adrien sees the effect he’s had on all of them, and he decides that’s enough. 

He grins at them, holding his arms up in the air, beaming. “I mean, truthfully though, identity crises really don’t bother you all that much when your family has its own private jet," he says jovially. "I mean, I'm worried about how late it’s getting because I'm filming a commercial tomorrow morning with Beyonce, so.”

“Beyonce?!!” Alya screams.

“Oh, _and_ I just bought my first Ferrari,” Adrien goes on. “It’s gold. It’s in Malibu, parked outside my mansion, you know, where I fully intend to take my hot new girlfriend sometime in the near future.”

The group reacts seamlessly to his change of track, and they all start throwing pillows and napkins at him.

“Oh my god, dude, you are the _worst!_ ” Kim yells, smacking him directly in the face with a plush square thing shaped like a penguin. 

“Pathetic attempt to hog the tart!” Kagami declares. “ _Rich people_.”

Adrien breaks down into little cackling guffaws, relishing how _free_ he feels, like years and years and _years_ of pressure have melted away as he falls back into Marinette’s lap. 

“Sorry, sorry!” he says, trying to shield himself from Kim’s assault with his elbows. “Sorry.”

"STOP HITTING HIM!" Marinette roars. "HE IS PRECIOUS CARGO! OH MY _GOD!_ "

“This is _mine,_ ” Kim snaps, shaking the tart in the air, stuffing the whole thing in his mouth at once.

~~

They sit around talking for a while longer, the conversation growing sillier and sillier as they begin to fade away into exhaustion.

Adrien really needs to go back to the hotel; he wasn’t making the Beyonce thing up (he hadn’t made anything up), and he knows Nathalie and G must be getting annoyed with him, but he just...he really doesn’t want to.

Marinette falls asleep sometime around one, her head pillowed in the diamond of his criss-crossed legs. He twists tiny braids into her hair, watching as the light shimmers blue on the crest of each curve. Kagami and Alya are passed out as well, twisted up together on the couch; Nino and Kim are arguing softly about football where they’re standing near the front door. Luka sits with his back pressed to the wall, fingers dancing over his softly squeaking strings, eyes shut. The melody issuing from his guitar is lilting, fluid and complex, a collection of plucked, dizzying staccato notes in waltz-time, layered over an undercurrent of something lullaby-sweet, a melody Cendrillon might hum as she scrubs the floor.

“What song is this? It's beautiful,” Adrien asks softly, careful not to disturb Marinette as he turns, very slightly, to face him.

“Oh, I haven't given it a name yet,” Luka says, with a shrug. “It's just something that sounds like you.” 

Adrien soaks the music in, letting it fill him up. It’s really, _really_ lovely.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all i know luka's heart song stuff is pure crack but omg 
> 
> i really really really love all of them so much
> 
> the "tournament of self-pity" IS an actual scene from the film, and while i've changed it a great deal, seriously, that scene was what made me want to write this, so i hope you don't mind the sad stuff. everyone will end up happy, i promise; this IS based on a 90s rom-com, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

The birds are complaining outside when Marinette’s eyes flutter open. The sky continues to be cloud-heavy, but the sunrise is so vividly peach that the entire room is awash in a fuzzy, juicy glow. Marinette yawns, rubbing her eyes, and the first thing they land on is a mess of gold spraying across her sternum. She is sticky-hot, overheated from a combination of sleep, physical contact, and thunderstorm humidity, and the body half-sprawled across her own expands and contracts with each soft, purring snore.

...Adrien. Sweet, lovely, lonely, secretive, deliciously silly Adrien, sleeping peacefully on her chest on her living room floor.

He is also drooling on her.

Nobody ever writes about how romantic drool can be, when it is a _gift_ , because it means she’s allowed to feel him drooling on her.

...okay, maybe Marinette is in a little too deep, if she’s cherishing spit now.

_…ais la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment, tout doucement, sans faire de bruit, et la mer efface sur le sable..._

It takes Marinette a while to comprehend that it isn’t just her viscously romantic imagination audiating Edith Piaf; the dulcet tones issue from one of the four phones still laying on her coffee table. It’s the only one she doesn’t recognize, which means it must belong to Adrien.

“My treasure,” she whispers, combing fingers through his sleep-sweaty hair, “love.” She sweeps her fingers down his long neck, combing his prominent spine. “Adrien.” 

“Mmmmmmfffffff,” he murmurs, shifting against her, slipping downward as he curls into himself, burying his nose between her breasts.

EEK, goes her brain, though the rest of her body definitely responds with a different sentiment. 

“Adrien,” she says, with a bit more urgency. “Adrien. Your phone is ringing.”

“Noooooooo. I’m sleeping. They are welcome to go die. Goodnight.” Adrien mumbles against the rigid space his mouth is pressed into, the line where her ribs fan away from her stomach.

“No, Adrien. It’s your phone. It’s morning.”

Adrien’s head jerks up with a start, realizing first that he needs to be awake, “Oh _NO!_ ” and then that he’d had his face...where it was, “Oh, Marinette, I’m sorry, I--”

“ _Aw,_ I was hoping you were down there on purpose,” she giggles, then pushes his torso sideways. “Answer your phone.”

His sleepy face goes a bit deliriously pleased with that, before he remembers why he’s awake again.“Oh! Yes. Duh.”

He squishes her as he chooses to roll across her rather than sitting up, grabbing for his phone blindly. 

“Nathalie, I’m so _sorry_ \--” he says, before he sags in utter relief. Marinette goes “oof!” under the full weight of him, while her entire being explodes with pleasure. “Oh, thank God, thank you, I love you, I don’t want you to die, you are a blessing and I owe you my entire life.”

“You _really_ don’t, Adrien,” Marinette hears Nathalie say, with extremely pointed politeness. Whatever she says next is softer, but because Adrien is still blanketing her, Marinette can just about make out the gist of a terse warning.

“I know, Nathalie, I’m sorry-- _no,_ I didn’t take anything--okay...no! Oh my god, _no,_ we were at the bakery all night, I just--Okay. O _kay._ ” A pause, and a very warm smile. “A full day? Wow, I--I will, thanks. Thanks. Okay. Bye.”

He hangs up, and then he looks down at her.

“I have a day off,” he says, thready voice glimmering with wonder. 

“What happened?”

He starts to answer, but then he sidetracks. “There is spit on my forehead,” he says, touching the skin there gingerly, “which means there is spit on your shirt.”

Marinette laughs at him, tempted to point out that it is _specifically_ on her boobs since he decided to give her the gentlest motor-boating in the history of romance, but she’s too worried about the fact that he’s still here to do that. “Everything okay? Have you ruined your chances with Beyonce?”

“I think that was Jay-Z’s doing, more than my own,” he says, voice still crackly-low with sleep, before he smiles back at her. 

“Are you in trouble?”

Adrien beams. “Nope!”

“When do you have to go?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Of course not.”

“No walk of shame for me, then, Princess. Seems this storm is going nowhere, so they’ve rescheduled the shoot for Tuesday.” He grins. “I don’t have to go at all, if...if you want me to stay.”

“Of course I do.” Marinette feels herself melt back into the soft shag of the area rug, sighing happily. “What time is it?” 

“Mmmmmm…” Adrien’s thumb flicks back across his screen. “5:27.”

“How much sleep did we get?”

“Oh...three hours, give or take.” He boops her nose. “Not counting party-naps, of course.”

He gazes down at her with extreme fondness, sleepy green eyes going very soft indeed, propping himself up on his elbow to trace her face with his fingertips. “What time do you have to work?”

“Now,” she sighs. “Half an hour ago.”

She leans into his hand, eyes falling shut. He cups her face with a hand so long and slender that the curve of his palm rests against the bump of her jaw, and the pad of his middle finger grazes the wispy flyaways at her temple. “Really? Even on a Sunday?”

“Even on a Sunday,” she confirms. She grips his forearm, and curls herself up to sitting, yawning hugely. Hmm. Hangover isn’t as bad as the last one; she feels relatively functional.

“You want to spend the day here? I can pop in and out, you know, from downstairs, if you just want to chill. You know, have a nice rainy day at home, kind of thing.”

Something in that sentence has caught him, making him go all doe-eyed and young looking, and he swallows with a little nod. “Okay,” he says softly, and he’s doing the thing where she thinks he might kiss her again.

He doesn’t, though.

She holds out her hands to him. “Come on.”

He blinks at her, gaze ever so slightly unfocused. “What’s this?” 

“Help me stand up,” she says. “Come on.”

“Oh,” Adrien continues blinking. “Okay.” He draws himself upward, wobbling slightly, before bending to reach for her hand.

She grabs it, and when he pulls her to standing, she throws the full weight of herself at him, so he has to catch her. 

It...doesn’t go quite as smoothly as she’d planned, though. 

Adrien goes ACK, takes two stumbling steps backward, overbalances, and drops both of them straight back onto the floor.

“What was that?!!” Adrien cries.

Marinette barks an embarrassed laugh. “I don’t know!” she says, covering up her mouth with a hand. “I was trying to be smooth!”

Adrien starts laughing now too. “By smacking into me?!!”

“I was _throwing myself at you,_ ” she cackles.

“What, like a...like a physical play on words?”

“Yes,” she giggles, and oh, maybe she’s not hungover because she’s still slightly drunk. Oops. “Like...you know that thing, where, you know, someone takes someone’s hands, and the person they’re pulling up like...jumps into their arms instead of standing up? And the person standing like catches them in their arms, and they have a ~moment?~”

“Like in...competitive ballroom dancing.”

“...yes.”

“Like in _cartoons_.”

“Like in movies.” Marinette laughs, definitely acknowledging that okay, she has made a mistake. “I don’t know; I used to do gymnastics, and you’ve done it on camera, so...I thought I’d try something. I mean, well. It didn't _work,_ but...”

Adrien breaks into his belly-laugh, though it’s a bit more hoarse than it would be if they’d been awake for longer than five minutes. “Okay, first of all, I have to yank you up; the center of gravity is all wrong otherwise.”

“So there wasn’t enough yank.”

“Yes, the yank. That is the scientific term. And you were too close to me too,” Adrien says. “And I could really hurt you if you’re not moving the way I need you to move.”

“Jeez, okay, Dancing with the Stars; I get it,” she pouts, mock-consternated, before she realizes she is suddenly very much not on the floor anymore, that she is now _looking down_ at the top of Adrien’s head, that her ribs sting just slightly, and she is--now she’s falling.

Adrien catches her, and swings them both into a balletic spin, and she has to wrap all of her limbs around him and hold on for dear life to make sure she doesn’t wind up on the floor all over again.

“There you go!” he says. “A _moment!_ ”

“HOW ARE WE STILL SPINNING?”

“Physics!”

"Physics would _never_ allow this!"

They slow to a stop.

“WHAT THE HELL?” she pants, staring down at him, because her bottom half is being supported on the circle of his arms, thighs gripping his middle. “You just THREW ME!”

“ _And_ I caught you,” he grins. 

“You threw me for a _literal_ loop!”

“Heehee,” is his response.

“Adrien Agreste, you are something else,” she breathes, and, with her hands gripping his hair like a vice, she kisses him hard on the mouth.

\--

Adrien hums against her, eyes fluttering closed, falling back in an arc so that his shoulder blades meet the stair railing. She kisses him like she invented it: wildly, full of teeth, not a thought for technique, squeezing him with the force of her compact body.

He hasn’t ever kissed anyone like this, and he has been kissed many times, by many people.

It is a fuzzy, surreal fruition, that he’s never kissed someone _he_ wanted before.

\--

“Hi guys,” Nino calls as he makes his way downstairs. 

“Mmmmfff,” says Marinette, where she is currently (lasciviously) ravishing their house guest against the stair railing. She comes up for air, hair an insane tumbleweed on her head, though that must be from sleep, because Adrien’s hands are locked under her thighs, because he is fucking holding her whole life up with what looks like zero support. “Hi Nino. Uuuhhhh.”

Nino starts the coffee pot, grabbing a croissant out of the bread box. He plops down onto a barstool, yawning. “Damn, I wish I could do that.”

“What,” Adrien pants at him, face so red it’s practically purple, “is Alya not upstairs?”

“No, I mean, how you’re holding her up like that, like it’s nothing,” Nino explains conversationally, digging through the drawer at his left to retrieve a--oh. A hoodie. Why is there a hoodie in the kitchen drawer? He’d been looking for a toothpick.

“Ah yes, well, it’s simple science. She’s holding herself up too, and I’m using the railing for support. It’s about gravity and angles and...force,” Adrien says a bit vaguely, glancing back and forth between Nino and Marinette questioningly.

“Oh, don’t worry dude,” Nino drops the hoodie, and continues to root around for the toothpick. “She’s seen me in worse positions. You guys do your thing.” He yawns again.

They cool it, of course, because it’s Marinette, who is probably freaking out and imagining throwing herself off the Eiffel Tower, even though _she’s_ basically walked in on Nino and Alya trying to create future generations, and because, from what Nino had seen, Adrien’s a pretty buttoned-up guy. Adrien lets her down gently, looking for all the world like the fucking Moscow-trained ballerina...bollorono? What the hell is a male ballet dancer called?...he probably is. 

Jeez, and Marinette is ridiculous about it too, all pointed toes and floaty hands. They’re two seconds into this, and they already look like a fairy-tale couple, like...it’s some Disney shit. Like, PG-13 Disney shit, but still Disney shit.

They are approaching thirty years of life. All of them.

“So are you blowing Beyonce off for us?” Nino grins. A-ha! Toothpick acquired. He doesn’t remember trying to eat paper last night, but apparently he had at some point.

“Nah, her people canceled on my people,” Adrien says as he _glides_ over to sit next to him at the bar.

“How do you still smell so good?” Nino asks without thinking. “What _are_ you?”

“Huh?” Adrien blinks at him, surprised, before he realizes he is quite pleased with himself indeed. “Ah! It’s Le Labo; custom. I mean, I know they’re utterly passe now, but the guy I like, in Venice? His name is Robbie, and he’s such a Nose, he’s practically French. High concentration, delicate sillage, and this devastating drydown.” 

Nino deadpans. “Bro. Speak French.”

Adrien deadpans back. “Bro. We _invented_ this.” He holds his wrist up. “Here. Smell me.”

“What, seriously?”

So he’s embarrassed to be caught kissing Marinette, but he _isn’t_ embarrassed to ask Nino to sniff his arm.

“I’m a model, Nino, it’s not weird,” Adrien says. “Go on.”

Nino blinks at him for a little while longer before he shrugs. “Okay, cool.” He takes a nice, long, breath, and actually finds himself sighing.

“Holy shit, that’s like...heaven.” He glances over at Marinette, who is highkey twinkling at them, all sparkly-eyed with her hands clasped in front of her chin. “Marinette, can we share him?”

"No." says Marinette.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Nino,” Adrien says, and he actually sounds genuinely remorseful. “I’m almost pathetically monogamous.”

“Mmmm, that’s probably fair. Alya would kill me if I got to you before she did,” he nods sagely. “What am I smelling, dude? Educate me.”

“Well, I naturally smell like powder,” Adrien says. “Which is genetic, and unattainable.” 

Does he preen? Yeah he does. Nino snickers.

“So what’s the strongest smell you get?” Adrien asks, like he hadn't just been doing a dead-on impression of Tamaki Suoh.

“Licorice, but it’s not gross. How come it’s not gross? I hate licorice.”

“Ah, that’s the anise. Same smell, different chemical composition, so, obviously, different physical response,” Adrien nods. “It’s tempered by ginger and olive leaf.”

“So what I’m smelling is a spice rack.”

Adrien nods. “I am a very spicy man.”

Nino snickers at him. Hmm. Is he buttoned-up or not?

“What’s the like, sweet smell?”

“Ah, well, this is a deeper vanilla than you’ll get in most commercial scents--I won’t bore you with that--but there’s also honeysuckle.”

“No, I mean, the like...fruit smell? Which fruit is it?”

Adrien considers him for a while. He holds his wrist up to his own nose, and then he goes a bit pink.

“Ah,” he nods. “That’s. Um.” He laughs a little. “That’s...eau du Kim’s bad ideas. It’s curacao, specifically. As you can see, it has stained my sleeve.”

“Oh,” Nino says, trying to hold in his laughter, because he doesn’t know if Adrien is open for teasing or not. He seems chill, but he doesn’t want to make him feel embarrassed or whatever. “Well, it’s an _excellent_ compliment to the anise and olive leaf.”

Adrien gives it another sniff, and goes _huh._ “Okay, well, at least Kim’s a better perfumer than he is a bartender.”

Marinette joins them then, hopping up onto the island to sit at Adrien’s side, little feet swinging happily back and forth beside him.

A thought occurs to Nino. “Hey, Adrien, you have the day off, right?”

“I do,” Adrien nods. 

Nino hums to himself, oozing off his stool to retrieve his phone. He sees his chance: he’s definitely going to make it up to them, how he’d screwed up Adrien’s first phone call. He sends a quick message to Juleka, stuffing the tip of his croissant in his mouth. Juleka writes back promptly, replying that _hell yeah_ she’ll come to work early; she _really needs the hours._

Nino slides his eyes slyly over to where Adrien is trying to pretend like he isn’t running his hand up and down Marinette’s shin bone, his eyes fixed on something outside the window, while Marinette pretends like his fingers aren't reducing her to a squirming mess and that she definitely isn’t about to pounce on him again or anything.

Damn, they’re cute. Like, _stupid_ cute. Nino's seen Marinette go through two very long-term relationships, and countless crushes, and his best friend has never, _ever_ acted quite like this, not with any of them. He knows he’s made the right decision.

“Jules is gonna come in early,” he grins at them. “Adrien, I know you can’t work an oven, but you wanna help me and Mari set up for the day before I give her back to you?”

Marinette and Adrien turn their heads to him in perfect sync, grinning twin grins. It would be slightly creepy, if they weren’t...well...them. 

“Oh my gosh, Nino,” Marinette cries, jumping off the counter and throwing her arms around him. “THANK YOU.”  
  
Ah, yes.

She is also wearing Eau du Kim.

\--

Yeah, so Adrien _really_ doesn’t know how to work an oven. He barely knows how to work the microwave. Marinette has him wrapped up in a pink apron, even though all he’s really doing is pulling down and coiling up the streamers and fairylights at first, and pushing the cluster of tables back to what he hopes is approximate to their original locations. The bakery slowly fills with light as the sun angles itself behind the clouds that have begun releasing drizzly rain; the sky to the west has gone storm-dark and threatening, but it slowly lightens from orange-pink to dolphin grey in the east. 

Adrien’s pushing the broom around, wondering why he’s so bad at _sweeping,_ a thing all people over the age of five can do, when Marinette appears, a massive tray of brioche balanced on her head, the edge gripped with her left hand, and another smaller tray in the right. 

“Here, let me help you with that,” Adrien says, very happy to ditch the evidence of his domestic failure in the corner where he won’t have to look at it anymore.

Crossing behind the counter, he gently sweeps the larger tray from her head, sliding it into the place he saw them go the morning he’d first entered the shop.

“You big strong man,” she simpers, all whimpery sarcasm, easing the croissant tray into the case. “However did I run this business without you?”

“It definitely had cleaner floors back then, for a start,” he laughs in self-deprecation, watching her drop into a squat in that little black dress of hers. (Neither of them have had a chance to change yet, not that Adrien has anything to change into.)

Before she sticks her top half inside to rearrange the tray, though, Adrien slides a hand over the crown of her head, wincing only slightly as his knuckles come into the still-hot lightbulb that had been left on, forgotten, overnight. 

Marinette says, “Don’t you dare push my face into these croissants, Adrien Agreste!”

Adrien caresses the part in her hair with the pad of his middle finger. “Oh come on, I’d never do that. You just forgot your hat, Bague-inette.”

When she has her croissants sorted and her head is free from danger, she straightens back up, wiping her hands on her apron. 

Then she grabs the straps on his apron and yanks him down to her level, kissing the point between his eyes, just at the junction of his nose.

Man. Now that she's got the kissing bug, well...Adrien hopes she doesn't call an exterminator, like, ever.

“My scalp thanks you,” she says softly, like she’s reciting the delicate lines of a love poem.

\--

“Come here, you,” Marinette says, plucking Adrien from where he’s “helping” Nino with the croissants, fingers curled into his waistband. She drags him a few feet, planting him next to her bowl. “You’re piping for the macarons.” 

“Did I mess up?” he asks, feeling horrendous.

“What? No. Your croissants were perfect; they’re better than Nino’s.”

“Truth, dude,” Nino grins, pointing to a particularly lopsided butter-flour moon of his own creation.

Adrien sighs.

“You’re trying to do it _too_ perfectly, and there’s no need for that. But this isn’t nearly as precise,” Marinette says gently. “So you won’t have to stress, okay?”

“I’m not stressing,” he lies.

She sweeps her hand lovingly down his arm. “Okay,” she says. 

Marinette is the one handling the bread; he can’t _believe_ how much bread she’s made so far. Well, yes, he can, because that’s her job, but...it’s still kind of amazing how quickly flour and yeast go from being powdery white stuff to beautiful golden lumps under Marinette’s skilled, tiny hands. Of course, a large part of that comes down to the MASSIVE mixer she’s using; Adrien hadn’t known that massive mixers were a thing, honestly, but of course they are. He’s also deeply intrigued that they keep bread dough in plastic tubs that roll around on little dollies, so that the transportation from said massive mixer to the large island in the middle of the kitchen for shaping and preparing isn’t such a chore. It’s quite irritating that he knows medical terminology for brain surgery he can’t actually perform (thank you, that one time he was on an episode of _The Resident_ ), and that he can explain in layman’s terms why it’s currently impossible to calculate the values of dimensionless physical contact, but he hadn’t ever thought about giant dough mixers before. Adrien is already exhausted, and he has worked in a bakery for a grand total of forty-five minutes. Marinette has made upwards of 20 baguettes already, which are already in the oven, on top of all of the cookies, croissants, brioche rolls, and macarons she and Nino have already laid out and are preparing for baking or decorating or shelving. All Adrien’s done is push a bit of dirt around on the floor, and pull double-stick tape off the walls, and shape 3 croissants.

He’s not good at being...well. Bad at stuff.

“I don’t know, maybe I should just go back upstairs,” he grumps, frustrated with his uselessness, and she giggles at him. 

“Don’t give me that pouty face, silly.” In a single deft movement, she scoops a shimmery white gloop of meringue from the nearest mixing bowl, dropping it into the waiting mouth of her pastry bag. “You’re going to be clawsome at this.”

He smiles slightly at the pun; she doesn’t seem to have noticed she dropped it. She rolls the pastry bag closed, and waggles her finger at him to watch what she does.

There is a silicone baking sheet lining an oven tray. The sheet is marked with about 100 little circles; he’s fairly certain he knows what the circles are for.

“So,” she holds up the bag, squeezing the top of it gently, pinching lightly at the bottom, “this is how we hold the bag. It’s very easy, so don’t be intimidated.”

“Okay,” he says, catching his tongue in his teeth as he concentrates.

Marinette fonds at him for a few seconds, before catching herself with a little head shake. The pastry bag is tilted at a slight angle just above the silicone sheet; she begins to fill each circle with precise amounts of meringue.

“See? Like doing a coloring book, but with very sweet paint instead of crayon,” she says, dropping ten future-macarons in less than three seconds. Their fingers brush as she passes him the bag. “Ready to try?”

Adrien does; he doesn’t get the pressure right the first time, his first little dollop of meringue a messy sploot, and he frowns at his failure.

“It’s fine,” Marinette reassures him, reaching up to pet at his back with her gloved hand. “Go on, try another.”

His next attempt is better; he tries very carefully to perfectly mirror the work Marinette has done, and is almost successful. 

“There you go!” she encourages him, tilting her face up to offer him a brilliant smile. “Okay, now, when you’re done with this tray, go on to the next. I’ll have the pastry bags filled and ready for you with each different flavor.”

“'Kay,” he says distantly, focusing on not messing this up.

He’s dreadfully slow. 

“You don’t have to be quite that precise,” she says. “It’s okay if they’re slightly different.”

“Mmmm.” He grunts in frustration; he’d somehow managed to poke his tip into the batter that time.

“Adrien.”

“Hmm?”

“Seriously, don’t worry, these are hard to mess up if you stay inside the circle--”

“Doesn’t it need to look just like yours?”

“No! I’ve been doing this for my entire life; if you just keep it inside the lines, that’s perfect. The little swirl on top is going to bake out anyway. Don’t worry about things like that.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully, because after what he’d done at dinner last night, he doesn’t trust himself.

Marinette’s hand appears at his wrist, fingers wrapping around him before he can start another.

“Hold on, kitty. Stop.”

His heart skips a little at the nickname, and he slants a surprised look at her. He sees Nino go still out of the corner of his eye; he can’t bring himself to look at the expression he’s wearing.

“You’re _helping_ us,” she reminds him gently. “Nino and I do this everyday, just the two of us. Everything you’re doing is just extra help. We are the cake; you are the fruit, and the glaze. You’re the sweet stuff. You don’t have to be a perfectly cut strawberry to still be...you know. Delicious.”

“...you’re calling me delicious.”

“Perpetually. But more importantly, um. Maybe a little...too worried about messing up. Mess up a little! This is a bakery, not a surgery.”

A little meringue dribbles from the tip of the bag, because he’d squeezed it without meaning to. 

“You put so much heart into all of this, I feel like I’m a cardiologist that accidentally nicked your aorta,” he jokes at her, and she harrumphs.

“Mmmmm, I think you might be giving yourself too much credit,” she says with that cheeky little edge to her words. “If this were a body, the baguettes would _definitely_ be the heart; the macarons are an elbow at best. If you were to…I dunno, bash a bunch of them into the wall--”

“I did, last week, a whole tray,” Nino adds in, with a wink.

“--then you know, your funny bone will make your hand go numb for a bit, but it’ll fade soon enough,” Marinette finishes. She pats his back. “Have confidence!”

Adrien knows the macarons are a _little_ more important than an elbow, in the context of this really...heh.. _floury_ metaphor anyway, but he nods at her.

“You said last night you wished you could’ve spent more time with us when you were young,” Marinette explains. “This is _just like_ being with us then.”

“Ah, reliving such cherished memories of child labor.”

Marinette nods sagely. “Indeed.”

“You should’ve seen Jules when she first started. Couldn’t hold a towel, she was so nervous. Now she makes, like, all the cookies,” Nino says, twisting the last of this particular batch of croissants. Marinette flits over to him to slide them into the oven. 

“Okay,” Adrien nods, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

\--

The store bells twinkle sometime just before eight a.m. Marinette surveys the kitchen, and the display cases; she’s satisfied that Juleka and Nino won’t have to bake anything else until after the rush stops, unless the rush is particularly crazy, but she’s assured them she’ll stay upstairs just in case they do wind up needing back-up. Nino insists that they won’t, and Marinette’s fairly certain that he is correct, since Juleka is proving more and more everyday to be just as capable a baker as either of them, but...well…

She knows she can’t exactly take Adrien out for a stroll around the park or anything, both because it is pouring rain, and because his bodyguard isn’t around. She’s observant enough to have noticed that Adrien is rarely without G, of course. There is also the issue of whether or not Adrien is, or if he will ever be, okay with getting papped while he’s out with her; that’s a subject she doesn’t want to broach unless he brings it up, because she doesn’t want to spook him. Worse still, she _definitely_ doesn’t want to make it seem like she WANTS to get papped with him. If she frames it as though SHE needs to stay in the house, and not the other way around, maybe she’ll save Adrien from having to think about the fact that he CAN’T go out.

...this is all based on presumption of course, centered on how he’d talked about relationships last night. But still. Better safe than sorry.

“Hi, Jules,” Marinette says, wiping her hands off on her apron. “Can you grab the broom and stick it in the closet?”

“You got it, sis.” Juleka’s pretty tenor echoes through the seating area. 

Juleka joins them in the kitchen a few minutes later, piling her ridiculously long purple hair into a massive donut atop her head, stuffing it up under her black chef’s hat hanging from a peg on the wall. 

“The cavalry has arrived,” Nino says, dropping his last batch of croissants into the oven. He grins at Marinette. “Okay, kids, skedaddle. Go enjoy yourselves.”

Adrien straightens from where he is meticulously piping chocolate ganache onto the backside of a macaron. He looks up, cheeks red and hair wild, streaked with meringue from the many, many times he’s run his hands through his hair. 

“Right on target,” he says, squishing his cookie sandwich together with great delicacy. He holds it up for everyone to observe. “I did it!”

Marinette laughs behind her hand as Nino congratulates him.

“Oh, are you a new hire?” Juleka rumbles in her quiet way.

“ _Definitely_ not,” Adrien says.

“Juleka, this is Adrien,” Marinette says. “He’s my...Adrien.”

“Hi, Juleka, I _am_ her Adrien,” he beams. He’s perked up a bit now that he’s managed to produce something; Marinette knew he would. He gives a little wave. “Nice to meet you, I’ve heard lots of great things.”

Juleka blinks at him, before her eyes narrow somewhat. “Oh, you really are Chat Noir.”

“He’s Chat Noir,” Nino agrees. 

“I’m Chat Noir,” Adrien nods, though he’s shooting a slightly nervous glance in Marinette’s direction now.

“Luka warned me this morning that you might still be here,” Juleka says, and Marinette can tell she’s secretly excited to be meeting him, because she’s actually speaking in full sentences, “but I didn’t believe him. He told me not to tell anyone else, so obviously _he_ isn’t going to tell anyone else, either.”

“Luka told--”

“He’s my brother,” Juleka reassures him. “Don’t worry. Pretty sure Jonathan Perry is our dad, so we get the whole privacy thing. Nice to meet you, too.”

Adrien’s jaw drops. “ _What?_ ” 

Juleka doesn’t even qualify that with an explanation; she just goes straight on to whisking his macaron tray out to the display case.

“So that’s Jules,” Marinette says.

“Wait, is the Jagged Stone thing…is he really…?”

She pats his shoulders with a grunt as she starts untying his apron for him. “It’s a whole thing. Better not to ask, trust me.”

\--

Some of Adrien's macarons are a bit lopsided (Marinette insists they aren’t, but he _knows_ they are), but they’re pretty okay, in the end. She even lets him eat one.   
  
Passionfruit, he decides, is his favorite.

\--

Adrien showers while Marinette searches through some of her old menswear pieces for something he might fit; she hears him slip on something, knocking a bunch of their bottles over, which is followed by quite a silly little laugh indeed. He must’ve found her My Little Pony shampoo. She doesn’t know anything about the show, but she likes that it smells just like the blackberry ice cream from Andre’s cart.

When he wriggles his way up through her trapdoor, he’s got the fluffy part of his hair twisted up to dry, her old, soft pink towel wrapped low on his hips.

Marinette swallows, reminding herself that she’s seen _all_ of him like this before, in magazines and on billboards and in that _ridiculous_ cowboy movie, so there is no reason she should suddenly feel...all a tizzy.

He leans against her wall, grinning down at her, dripping on her floor. The muted, pink storm-light of her room cuts across his supernaturally smooth skin in shimmering bands. 

“Hello again, gorgeous,” he says, forcing his voice down into its lowest placement, “Perhaps I should slip into something... _less_ _comfortable_.”

Marinette smirks, rolling her eyes. “Slipping seems to be a theme suddenly; I heard you fall in the shower. Are you alright?”

His smile goes a bit sheepish. “One of my contacts fell out, and I was trying to find it, but instead I found a bar of soap with my foot.”

“Oh no,” she frowns. “Is it gone forever?”

“The soap is fine,” he replies reassuringly. She huffs at him. “It’s okay; it was actually in my eye the whole time." Marinette wonders if that's a lie; he is a bit squintier than he had been earlier. "I _did_ find something _else_ though.”

“Yes, yes, sometimes I use kid’s shampoo.”

He grins at her. “So the secret to your delicious glaze is My Little Pony: MagicBerry.”

“Oh _god,_ I swear I don’t get hair in the pastries.”

He snickers triumphantly, pulling her into a very, very wet hug before she can protest.

“Ack! Adrien!”

“Aaaaahhhh, I’ve been waiting for a proper cuddle all morning,” he hums, pressing as much of himself against her as he can, soaking through all of yesterday’s clothes. “Isn’t it nice, just to be held?”  
  
She can't even enjoy (or freak out at the fact) that he's not wearing any freaking clothing, because now she is sticky and wet and there's still flour all over her and eeeuuuuuuurrrrggghhh.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” she cries, slapping at his slick back. He smacks a kiss against her forehead. Then he traipses away.

He has the audacity to drape himself over her chaise lounge, looking for all the world like a Greek statue in a sparkly scrunchy. “So. Progress report. How am I doing, seduction-wise, on a scale from one to ten?”

The _impudence._ “Two. Zero. Negative a million.”

“Then _why_ are you blushing?”

“I am flushed with rage.”

“Well, it’s a beautiful look on you,” he says, voice gone silky, “as any look is.”

“No! No buttering me up after that nonsense you just pulled,” she says, mock-indignant, trying to tear her eyes away from the fluid curve of his waist, because his waist, of course, trails away into his hip bones, which. Well. He has really, _really_ good hips. Like really nice hips. Like, if having hips was an Olympic sport, he’d be the reigning world champion. He’d have one of those photos where he’s wearing all 23 of his gold medals on his chest at the same time. He’d be shirtless in that photo, just like he’s shirtless now, and he’d be doing that Chat smirk, the one where his lip goes all curled, and his chin would be tilted up, and his _throat_ \--

“--negative a million, you were saying, Mlle. Bague-inette?” he teases her. “Care to revise that score?”

“Yes,” she swallows. “Negative a _billion._ ”

She finally wills her body into motion, pointedly turning her back to him, dropping down to dig through the chest of old design projects she has pushed into a corner. (If someone were to accuse her of poking it out a little when she does, well, she wouldn’t deny it in court. Might as well give a little back to him.)

Adrien is a fairly standard sized model, though part of why he’s so lovely, and somewhat androgynous, is because of that tiny waist; his belly size and his hip size aren’t going to be the same, and his thighs are thicker than they were when he was a model, because of all the superhero training...hmmmm. His legs are a little _too_ long, actually, for any of her standard stuff, though he might rock high-waters if he doesn’t mind cuffing them.

She considers his ankles.

“As a couple, we have, like, extremely nice ankles,” she muses aloud, not really paying attention to what she’s saying until she hears Adrien shifting behind her.

“Do we?” he asks, in a particularly mischievous voice. 

“Sorry, that was--I was just thinking out loud.”

“Hmmm. Let’s do some investigating.”

His hand closes around her leg, though, and she squeaks. He gives it a squeeze, before the touch drops away again. She can’t bring herself to look at him.

“Yours are nicer than mine,” he declares, and Marinette is so embarrassed she actually presses her face into the mess of clothes in her chest. Adrien laughs throatily at her.

 _Come on, Marinette, get a grip,_ she growls to herself, pulling her face out of a delicate mass of red lace. She brushes that piece aside as her brain lights up in recollection.

“Ah-ha!” she cries, triumphantly, digging up a pair of soft, green trousers. They’re a little fancy, and she’d actually made them for Luka years ago now when they were in Uni together, but she’d made them _way_ too long. They were supposed to have been a Christmas present, but she’d had finals, and she hadn’t been paying enough attention to her cutting at the time.

“Oh, wow,” Adrien says, sitting up, no longer posing like a ridiculous...ridiculous thing. He peers at them. “Those are nice.”

“The waist’ll be a little big,” she says, “but I can fix that in no time.”

She grabs the ever-present hand stitcher from her desk, and takes a few seconds to eyeball Adrien’s middle. Yep, all it’ll take is a few centimeters, and these will be fine. 

“The pockets are too small,” she says, as her little device whirrs to life, “and there’s a bit of a bubble in the seam on the left knee, but they’re really soft. This used to be a throw blanket.” She flips the trousers over to take in the other side. “And they’ll still be a bit short; it’s a bit like chenille, though--I mean, not _really;_ because obviously you can't cut and re-sew that, but--anyway, so they’ll stretch through the thighs. They’re completely out of style, I mean nobody wears cigarette legs anymore, but…” Her little sewing machine stops. “They’ll fit!"

She holds them up for Adrien to observe. He’s watching her with a very sweet expression that she can’t quite read.

“You designed those?” he asks.

“‘Design’ is a bit generous, truthfully,” she folds the waistband so he can see her looping golden signature. “I mean, they’re a blatant Armani knock-off, but…” She shrugs. 

“Why aren’t you working for a house?” he asks, doing the gentle-voice thing he does. “Those are gorgeous.”

She shrugs. “My parents wanted to retire. I didn’t want them to sell the bakery. It was what needed to be done.”

He takes the trousers from her, careful to keep the towel from falling as he does. “Was owning a bakery your dream?”

She stands up, brushing herself off, replacing her hand stitcher. “Nope,” she says simply.  
  
He cradles the puddle of shiny green fabric to his chest like it's very precious.  
  
“I’m gonna hop in the shower next, okay? Just grab any shirt you’d like.” She bends to kiss his ear, simply because she can. “I’m going to go flavor my hair; prep it for tomorrow’s batch.” She grabs a pair of leggings and a big, silky red v-neck from her wardrobe.

He smiles softly at her. She wonders why he seems sad.

\--

When she returns to her room, Adrien is still on the chaise lounge, legs bent and crossed at the knee because they’re too long to extend without falling off the edge of the cushions, flipping through a battered old photo album. He’s squeezed himself into her old Art Club Francoise DuPont jumper, a paint-splattered throwback from freaking college, the sleeves so short they’re practically halfway up his forearms. How he’s managed to wrangle his shoulders into it is a complete mystery. Sure, she’d basically worn it as a dress back then, because she was ~creative~ like that, but still. 

“Why on Earth did you choose that jumper? Why do you keep choosing my WORST clothes?” she laughs, crawling into the tiny stretch of furniture still open beside him, slotting comfortably into the space under his arm like they’ve been doing this for lifetimes, rather than a mere handful of hours.

“Why on Earth did you choose this throw blanket?”

“Hmmm…?”

“For the trousers.”

“Um. Well. Because it was soft and wonderful, and...it feels nice. Oh, and it had a hole in it, so.” She shrugs.

“Exactly,” he says, flipping a page. His arms are so long that he doesn’t even have to shift her around to do it. “Look at this, Marinette. That coat. That’s so awesome.”

“Mmm,” Marinette snuggles against his ribs, fighting against the waves of exhaustion that started coming in while she was bathing. Man, she is definitely not young and crazy anymore. “Yeah, Alya was the coolest kid in school, hands down. She was the _only_ person who could’ve pulled that off.”

“Is that Alya?” He grins, squinting at the photo hard. Marinette wonders, again, if he hadn’t actually found his missing contact lens at all. “That construction, though. That honeycomb smocking...people take years to get that right. You’re what, fourteen here? Fifteen?” He holds the photo closer to his nose, and yeah, he’s definitely having trouble with that eye. No wonder he thinks the coat is great, HA. “Holy moly, how long did it take you to _bead_ this?”

Marinette goes a bit red, smashing her face into his armpit so she doesn’t have to look at him. “Mmmmmmm, I dunno, a month, maybe? Two? I don’t remember; it was such a long time ago.”

It is an okay piece, really; not one of her best, and certainly not deserving of Adrien’s admiration. The coat Alya is wearing flares into tight pleats at the waist, cinched by a simple tied belt. Constructed entirely of a spongey, peachy cotton-blend, the fabric hadn’t lent itself to the intricate stitching required for a really clean diamond shape, and it’d added bulk to her silhouette that Marinette wasn’t exactly thrilled with, but she’d been young, and inexperienced, and using YouTube videos to direct her methodology. The cowled collar never draped as naturally as she would’ve liked, and the tiny opalescent glass beads accentuating the point in each diamond had given the whole thing a sort of Easter-y cheesiness that she hadn’t noticed until the entire thing was done, but...well, Alya had loved it, and she’d worn it constantly, for three winters in a row, until she outgrew it completely. She’d handed it down to her little sisters to share; Marinette hasn’t seen it for a while, because even Ella and Etta are too big for it now.

“It’s just so clever,” Adrien says. “All that detail on such a nice, homey fabric. Pageant-beauty and pyjama-comfort. What a commentary.”

“It’s _costume_ , and fundamental textile ignorance,” Marinette laughs. “We were kids.”

“The idea that costume is somehow separate from couture irritates me,” Adrien sighs. “I mean, it’s an old argument, and not an interesting one--”

“Okay, Valentino,” Marinette pokes him. 

“ _Everything_ is a costume,” Adrien hums, and she wonders what experience he’s had that makes him so passionate about this topic. She wonders if she should press it, but she figures if he wanted to go into it, he would. 

She plucks the album from his hands and tosses it aside.

“Want breakfast?”

Adrien side-eyes her, frowning slightly, before pulling her into his side, wrapping around her like an octopus. 

“I kinda want a nap,” he says, before exploding into a huge yawn. 

“Sounds good to me,” she yawns back, looping an arm over his chest, melting against him.

\--

They sleep.

\--

When next they wake, it’s to a sharp crack of thunder rattling her room with such force that it scares the crap out of Adrien. He accidentally bashes Marinette in the face with an errant elbow, which makes her jump up and scream, “I’M AWAKE!” and then roll straight off the edge of the lounge. 

The storm really _is_ pelting them; Adrien can see precisely why they’d canceled the shoot, and he takes a few breaths to calm himself again. He’d been having a nightmare; he can’t remember, upon waking, what it was about.

His stomach gives a rumble.

“Sorry, Princess,” he says blearily, rubbing at the eye that he can’t quite see out of. He blinks, trying to focus at all; the room is fuzzy around the edges, shimmering and romantic, the blur almost gaussian. “You okay?” He leans over the edge of the mattress, stretching a hand out to her.

“My poor dignity,” she moans, rubbing her face. “I swear I should just donate it to charity. No point trying to keep it now that I’ve got an Adrien around.”

He hops down to the floor, bending to sweep her up into a bridal hold. She goes “ _really?_ ,” so he goes, “Dignity is not only completely overrated, it’s also completely boring.”

She grunts. 

“Where’s the lie?” he presses.

“It’s not a lie so much as an unfair advantage,” she loops her arms around his neck. “You’re already so cool.”

“Need I remind you that I am a huge dork. Your words, not mine.”

“Yeah, but a _cool_ one. You haven’t fallen off of anything today, for starters. ”  
  
"I did fall in the shower!"

"Did you actually fall _down,_ or just lose your balance for a second?"

"Technicalities, need I remind you, are also _extremely boring._ "  
  
"Sorry, Adrien. Dork or not, you're cool."

“Mlle. Mari, if I’m cool, you’re _super-_ cool. For example: I can’t even use a broom.”

“I don’t think brooming ability is a standard measure for coolness.”

“Nonsense. All the coolest kids are brooming these days.”

“The ‘coolest kids.’ Okay, broomer.”

“No, no, I am _not_ a broomer; that is my point.”

“I’m super hungry,” she says, and then her entire face lights up. “Hey! I have a great idea!”

“What’s that?” he asks, twirling her around a bit. 

“Let’s eat crap!”

“What?!!” Adrien barks a laugh, staring at her.

“I mean, let’s eat all the worst, most terrible junk food you can’t possibly have when you are living in the real world,” she says, and her body starts doing its little excited wiggling thing. “I’m talking stuff you haven’t had since you were a kid. Chips, microwave pizza, those deep fried cheese puff things…”

“McNuggets,” he says abruptly. “I want McNuggets. I want _thirty_ of them. NO.” he breathes a dreamy sigh. “I want _sixty_ of them.” His eyes go positively lustful. “And a chocolate shake to dip them in.”

“Wow, not only are you so, so bad,” she purrs at him, and he gives her a bounce, “you’re also really gross. That sounds terrible.” 

“Oh-ho, I see it’s time to educate you. Need I remind you, out of the two of us, I am the one who is much, _much_ closer to being a professional chef.” She snorts at him, giving his hair a ruffle. He sets her down on her feet again, popping open her trap door. “Come on. Let’s order some McDonald’s.”

\--

Their food arrives with a courier about half an hour later; they’ve ordered stuff for Juleka and Nino too. Nino reassures her that all is fine, and that Alya has left to go meet Chloe again, and Marinette can’t help but say a silent prayer for her life (and, subsequently, the continuation of their friendship). 

She plops down beside Adrien on the sofa, and they stuff their faces with joyful, reckless abandon. Adrien doesn’t quite manage to eat sixty, but he definitely puts away something close, and _no,_ nuggets and chocolate shake is NOT something Marinette will be eating again any time soon. After a brief moment of nearly succumbing to sleep _again,_ due to the practically catatonic food-comas they both experience, it is decided that they will play video games, because that’s the sort of thing that is done after consuming 800 kilos of fast food.  
  
"So, love," Marinette says cautiously, trying not to out him with too much harshness, "are you near-sighted or far-sighted?"  
  
"Far-sighted," he says.  
  
"So you can see the TV."

He looks. He nods.

“Okay,” Marinette rubs her hands together, firing up the old PlayStation.  
  
"Oooh, what're we playing?"  
  
“The game is Ultimate Mecha Strike III, the _best one._ I’m Ladybug, you’re Chat Noir, no tradesies.” She grins at him. “I’m gonna kick your ass, kitty."

Adrien practically upends the sofa, he jumps toward her with such excitement.

“So you say,” Adrien snarls back, a feral light painting his eyes electric-hot, “but what you don’t know is that I spent my entire formative years playing this game every single day after my lessons ended, because while YOU were wasting your life on such childish absurdities as _hanging out_ with your _amazing friends_ and spending _quality_ time with your _loving family,_ I was locked in my room, alone, miserable, lonely... _training._ ”

Marinette’s heart sinks into her stomach, and she drops her controller on the table to fuss him. 

“Oh, Adrien, I--”

“HA!” Adrien roars, and the TV speakers announce that she’s been hit. “HA-HA! Better get in the game, Princess; you’re already 200 points behind!” _SCHWIIIING!_ CRASH. Adrien leaps up, jumping so high that he manages to land backward in a perfect crouch on the cushions beside her. “400!”

“DAMNIT, ADRIEN!” Marinette roars, furiously snatching up her controller again, mashing buttons in a furious, blind rage. “HOW DARE YOU USE MY SYMPATHY AGAINST ME! I GOT YOU _NUGGETS!_ ”

\--

They play for three straight hours.

Marinette very definitely kicks his ass in the end, no matter how many times he tries picking her up and swinging her around or tickling her or kissing her neck to try to distract her.

\--

When Nino returns upstairs after shutting the bakery for the evening, Marinette and Adrien are nowhere to be found. He calls for them a few times, but he receives no response; when he goes upstairs to use the restroom, he hears that one marriage song from _Up_ blaring from Marinette’s room. The door is open, but nobody is inside; he realizes with a start that water is trickling down over the edge of Marinette’s loft, and that the roof access panel is ajar, allowing the full force of the storm outside to pelt her bed. 

Swearing, he darts up the ladder, soaking the knees of his work jeans in the process. He goes to shut the accursed door, but he is caught a bit dumb before he can.

Marinette and Adrien, drenched through to their bones, are on the roof, waltzing in the rain.

(She dips him into a kiss, because of course she does.)

\--


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: A brief moment of sexual harassment occurs in a scene near the end of the chapter. It is not graphic, but it's still people being generally horrible (the behavior is not perpetuated by any of our beloved characters, of course, because I am 100000% anti-salt). In fact, the entire section is pretty much just people behaving terribly. If you would like to skip this section, scroll past the block of text beginning with ~~~~--~~~~, and ending with ~~. (If you've seen the film, you can probably guess which scene this is. -_-)

\-- _Earlier That Day--_

Three things occur to Alya at once.

First, Chloe...might not be as stupid as she makes herself out to be on Instagram.

Second, Chloe is on something. Her pupils are the size of dinner plates.

Third, Chloe is angry _._

“You _are not_ Cow Girl,” was the first thing Chloe’d said, followed by, “Let me see your press badge,” followed by a fiery look at Alix, and the declaration, “You’re _fired,_ ” to which Alix just laughed.

Now Chloe is staring at Alya like, for the life of her, she can’t figure out what’s just happened, or why Alya is still sitting next to her, or why she’s been forced to wake up today at all.

“Wait,” Chloe says, tilting her head sideways. “I remember you. You were the one...from the book signing.” Then her hands go very, very tight on the arms of her chair. “Are you _stalking_ me? Oh, my god, Jean-Bison--”

Alya smiles at her. “No, Chloe. I’m Alya Cesaire. I’m a real journalist, I promise. ‘Cow Girl’ passed this interview on to me.”

Chloe stares at her, brows pinching together, and her serpentine, crystally eyes go a bit red around the edges. “Oh. Right. This again.”

“This again?” Alya presses.

There is a tumbler sitting on the table beside Chloe’s wrist. She grabs it, and takes a drink. “Well, clearly, I must’ve insulted her, so _that’s_ why you’re replacing her. I mean, nevermind that _hers_ was the only interview that even...mattered.”

“Oh no, Chloe, that isn’t what’s happening here.” Alya watches her carefully, noting the very slight wrinkle crinkling the center of her forehead, and the tiniest, itty-bittiest curl to the left side of her upper lip. There is tension in her jaw, though it’s not from clenching; the muscles in her shoulders and neck have gone so tight that her fingers are trembling slightly where they clutch her glass. She’s upset, but not in the purposely exaggerated way Alya has _definitely_ seen her be...well, every other time. “Cow Girl is my best friend Marinette, and she’s not a journalist.”

“That explains a lot,” Chloe says. “How the hell did she even get in here to talk to me?” She frowns so deeply it actually changes her chin shape. “Wait. Is _she_ a stalker?”

“No Chloe, nobody’s stalking you,” Alya puts on her most soothing smile. “She’s my best friend.” Alya searches her brain for something to qualify that with; she’s pretty good at getting herself out of tricky situations, mainly because she likes getting herself into them. “There was a mix-up that day; she’s a baker. She was delivering croissants. It’s a whole thing.”

Chloe’s face morphs into something Alya definitely can’t read. “A baker?” she mulls that over. “Oh.” Then her voice dips. “ _Oh._ ” A beat. “It was brioche, wasn’t it? Not croissants.” Her expression goes incredibly fierce and calculating. “So. Why did she give us your name then? Who even _are_ you?”

“To land me this interview, of course,” Alya says smoothly. “I’m a huge fan. I mean, _Ladybug_ saved my life. I’ve wanted to interview you forever.”

“Wow, that is so ballsy,” Chloe says, looking positively feral. “I mean, I don’t believe a _word_ of it, but I appreciate the audacity.”

Alya inclines her head. “I’m an extremely ballsy person.”

“Hmm,” Chloe takes a sip of whatever it is she’s drinking, and she snaps at her bodyguard. “Jean-Antoine, go get--what was your name again?”

“Alya.”

“Get... _her_...some champagne. The good stuff.”

The door shuts with a soft snick.

Chloe is wearing crocodile leggings and a white dolman sweater; she crosses her long legs, Laboutin-ed foot jiggling slightly against the leg of the coffee table between them. She looks for all the world like a trust fund university student.

“So, Anita,” says Chloe coolly, “what are we going to talk about, hmm?”

“Anything you want,” Alya says. “You’re never given the chance to talk about who you really are, are you? You can tell me anything, or nothing.”

“Oh, so we’re just doing a repeat of Cow Girl’s thing.”

“You liked it,” Alya shrugs. “I pay attention.”

“Of _course_ you do. Which magazine do you write for again?”

“ _Voici_.”

“ _Ooooh,_ so you work with that Rossi woman,” Chloe’s sharp coffin nails drum against the glass tabletop. “She’s a bitch, isn’t she? The first thing she asked me about was my eating disorder. The one I don’t have.”

“Oh Jesus,” Alya can’t help but groan. Lila, the cold-hearted monster, _would_ do that. 

“Don’t see what he has to do with anything,” Chloe goes on. “She asked me all kinds of things reporters love.”

“I assume you don’t.”

“No, I _really_ don’t.”

“What are you tired of talking about?”

Chloe harrumphs. “Oh god, so much. Diets, how my costume fits, how I train to fit into my costume, how I feel about having to wear a wig...you know. And then of course there’s all the stuff about the drugs; I get tired of talking about that. And then there’s whether or not, you know, I’m cheating on Adrien.”

Alya rolls her eyes with a snort.

“He denied everything, of course. The relationship, I mean,” Chloe says jovially, running her thumb along the tips of her nails. “I mean, of _course_ I’d cheat, and I have, _many_ times, but Adrien wouldn’t put up with that, would he?”

Chloe watches Alya’s reaction with merciless interest.

“I’ve never interviewed him, but I can’t imagine he would, no.”

“Well, you don’t know him, _or_ me,” Chloe snaps, and Alya’s worried she’s actually going to throw the tumbler at her, but instead she laughs. “Wow, you didn’t even flinch.”

“I’m a professional,” Alya says dryly. One time a bass player flicked a cigarette at her in an interview; she isn’t lying.

“Your magazine is a rag,” Chloe says breezily. “I’m really not surprised that you’ve resorted to all of this, just to get an interview with me. People are so fucking crazy; why do they even _care_? Ugh. What are you going to say about me now? I mean, you know, since this is a one-on-one, intimate thing.” 

Alya’s skin crawls. “I’m not going to say anything about _anything,_ unless you want to tell me.”

“Right,” Chloe clears her throat. “Okay, I know this doesn’t usually happen, but how about _I_ ask questions then?”

“Haven’t you been doing that this whole time?” Alya snarks before she can help herself, and immediately recognizes her mistake when those vulture eyes narrow at her.

“So is that a no?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Alya says, straightening herself out, trying to un-ruffle her feathers. This is what Chloe’s known for, after all; Alya has never met anyone who simultaneously hates and is so deeply hated by the press. 

“Right,” Chloe smiles again, setting her glass down. “I mean I thought it was weird that someone had written her phone number on that pastry box and all, but that’s not _half_ as weird as the fact that she just waltzed in here, gave us a fake name, pretended to be an interviewer, left Adrien with a bunch of baked goods, you know, and Adrien’s been ignoring phone calls from us ever since.”

Alya’s stomach drops.

She has made a mistake.

“So tell me about the bakery girl, Alice. Alanna? _Aardvark,_ was it? Is she a groupie, or a call girl, or…? You know. What are her intentions for our Adrien?”

\--

Alya gets her expose with Chloe alright, though _she_ comes out feeling more exposed than reporters usually do.

God, she hopes she didn’t do anything that will get Marinette in trouble. 

She has learned that Chloe is an advocate for the conservation of bees, that she has a favorite fortune teller back home in California, that her mom never loved her, and that Dolly Parton is her idol. When she was twelve years old, she accidentally ran over her dog with a Land Rover, and she has never, _ever_ gotten over it. The only person she’s ever loved is her assistant Sabrina, who she treats like garbage, her favorite eyeshadow is MAC in Aqua, and she hates shrimp, because she’s allergic to it. 

She is fiercely protective of Adrien. They have been friends since birth, and she has seen him go through horrible things.

“The last person he was with left him drunk and alone in the middle of an In & Out parking lot in fucking Victorville,” Chloe says conversationally, like Alya even knows what that means, “and _I_ was the one that had to come and clean him up. So you know. If you, or Cow Girl, or anyone else you’ve ever met so much as mentions him in a tweet, I will personally hunt you down. And I do mean hunt. He has never ignored a call from me before, Alissa.” 

Alya goes to promise that she, or anyone she knows, would ever do that (especially not after his performance at dessert the night before), but Chloe stops her with a sharp hand in the face. “ _No._ Don’t deny anything, because I won’t believe you, because I am still _baffled_ that you two managed to pull what you have. I’m tempted to sue you right now just for this. Got it?”

Since she was twelve years old, Alya has loved celebrities, and gossip culture, and the idea that wonderful, brilliant, talented people should be given a platform to share that wonderfulness with the world. She’s met so many famous people; so many people of influence. Many of the most wonderful interviews she’s participated in are with artists who are willing to be vulnerable, or influencers who are cracking under the pressure of simply trying to live every day; she’s met divas (XY) and queens (Vitaa) and people who are so open and honest there is literally no mystery left to them at all (Jagged Stone). There have been rockers who are overcoming addiction, actors who are just falling into addiction, writers with tortured pasts and boyband members so universally loved that they’ve forgotten what love actually is. 

But she’s never met anybody, before Chloe and Adrien, that she just kind of wants to bring home and wrap up in a blanket and ply with massive mugs of hot chocolate.

“Listen, this is off the record,” Alya says slowly, like she’s talking to a wounded animal, holding up her phone to show Chloe that the recording is off, “but like...does anybody come clean you up when you’ve been left in a Victorville parking lot?”

“Oh, _loads_ of people,” Chloe flips her hair. “What do you think my entire staff is here for? Anyway,” she scowls at Alya, “no one would ever _dare_ do that to me _._ How fucking insulting. I am _so_ insulted right now.”

That’s everything Alya needs to hear.

“Chloe, I mean this with all the love in my heart,” Alya says,“You need _friends_ , girl. If you ever want to just, tag along with Adrien, and be, like. Normal. And meet us, and stop being a weirdo, you’re welcome to. And _I,_ ” Alya presses, “unlike _Lila Rossi,_ would never tell a soul.”

Chloe stares at her, before bursting out laughing. “Oh my fucking god, what _are_ you? How _dare_ you! Get out of here, just go.” Chloe actually grabs Alya by the wrist and throws her out of the room. She doesn’t even make the bodyguard do it. “Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.” She slams the door in Alya’s face.

\--

When she returns home several hours later, Adrien has long since left, and Marinette is making tea, and Nino is playing _Draw Something!_ with Ivan and Mylene over the phone.

“Hi Alya,” says Marinette. “Did. Um. Did it go okay?”

Alya grins at them. She’s been turning over the “interview” in her head all day, tapping at her keys, beginning and subsequently deleting every word she’s written. Nothing seemed right. 

“It went great,” Alya says, pressing a tiny kiss against Nino’s forehead. He hardly notices her, he’s so intent on drawing...hmm. An alien made of cheese.

“It did?” Marinette grins, face lighting up like sunshine. “Wow! What did you guys talk about?”

“Oh, just...stuff. I followed your lead on just letting her talk. It worked like a charm.”

Marinette flops against the counter, throwing an arm across her face. “Oh Alya! I’m so relieved. I was so worried it was going to be, like, horrible, and--”

“I like her better now,” Alya says, and though it isn’t _quite_ true.

She may not...like Chloe exactly, but she knows _exactly_ what she’s going to do with the ridiculous, weird, interrogative, vaguely threatening interview she’s just had.

She’s going to write Chloe Bourgeois a love letter.

\--

Marinette and Adrien text constantly: they send each other dumb memes, and funny videos, and pictures of their breakfasts; Marinette takes little clips of the bakery in the morning for him, which Nino occasionally features in, and views from her roof at sunset, because they are so pretty. Adrien never sends her selfies, but he offers glimpses of himself...flashes of golden hair, his hand resting against piano keys, the curve of his tweed knee under a table at a meeting with some bigwig. Tuesday’s thing with Beyonce goes well; Adrien doesn’t say much about it, apart from the fact that Beyonce is really nice. He sends messages in surprisingly flowery language, all purple-prose and cheesy one-liners. He sends her links to his favorite poems, and stories about his cat, Plagg, who is back home in LA.

He isn’t bringing her to the premiere, of course, and she doesn’t mind, because they both agree that it wouldn’t be fair to put her through the scrutiny of being Adrien’s guest, but she and Alya and Nino curl up on the sofa together to watch online as they arrive on the red carpet. Adrien is resplendent in a black silk Gabriel suit; Chloe is lovely in a backless gold and red Gucci thing. They are so glamorous; so perfect in the flash of the cameras. They glow.

It’s strange to see Chloe kiss people’s cheeks now; Adrien’s Prince Charming smile is so different to the one he’d worn with nugget crumbs on his cheek, as he lost Mecha Strike so spectacularly to her. She wonders how many people there are in the world that can say they know what Adrien looks like when he’s actually happy--it’s probably more than she knows; all of the people on all of the sets he’s ever worked on must, but to even count herself among their ranks is still fantastical.

Adrien’s text ping chimes in the middle of the movie: _I can’t wait for you to see the death scene._

She screams and throws the phone across the room.

“Marinette!” Alya cries, startled. “What’s wrong?!!”

“ADRIEN AGRESTE, I SWEAR!” she roars so loudly that Adrien himself can probably hear her, all the way across the city, over the sounds of cinematic explosions.

\--

Adrien comes over on Friday night, and he has a little golden USB drive in his fingers as he passes through their front door. It’s late, well past bedtime, but he’d been so excited when he asked if he could see her again, she couldn’t exactly say no. He’s wrapped up in black sweats, his massive hood pulled up over his head; even in his own clothing, his sleeves are still too short.

She’s in her Chat Noir pyjamas (though she’s definitely wearing an absurd amount of makeup to go to sleep in now); he grins at her when he spots the little green glow-in-the-dark pawprints sprayed across her chest and arms, waggling his eyebrows when his gaze fixes on the matching boyshorts.

“Ooooh, you’re wearing my merchandise,” he preens. “I’ve got my paws all over you.”

“Not yet, you don’t,” she smiles up at him through her lashes. She holds up grabby hands.

“Is that an invitation?”

She smiles. “An open invitation.”

Stepping into the sitting room, shutting the door with his foot, he runs a hand down the full length of her arm, tangling their fingers together. He doesn't quip back, which makes her somewhat nervous, so she pushes up onto her tiptoes to press her lips to the point of his chin (it’s the only spot near his mouth that she can reach).

“After all that big talk, M. Agreste, are you feeling a bit bashful?”

“If by bash, you mean a bit like I want to bash my head into the wall?” he chuckles against her, but that doesn’t stop him from skating a hand down her back, palm stopping to rest on her waistband, just at the tip of her spine, pressing her into his body pelvis-first.

“Did you have a bad day?” she asks quietly, hooking her elbow around his neck.

He squeeze-lifts her into a hug. “Nothing your company can’t fix, Mari-of-Mine.”

Then he throws her over his shoulder, potato-sack style, and carries her upstairs. They get stuck in her trapdoor, of course, because trapdoors aren’t wide enough for two people, especially when one of those people is draped over the other, but it does lead to an amusing moment where Adrien winds up with his nose buried in her belly-button as they struggle to clear the tiny opening in the floor. Adrien giggles like an idiot, all vestiges of any post-real-world stiffness melting away, so it isn’t a total loss.

\--

Adrien plugs the USB into her tv, and they cuddle up on the lounge.

“What are we watching?” Marinette asks. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at her, and flicks the remote. “Oh, you know.”

The screen flickers to life with an English message across the bottom that reads, _PROMOTIONAL COPY-NOT FOR PUBLIC DISTRIBUTION._

“OooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOH!!!!!!” Marinette shrieks. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! This is the new one, isn’t it?!!”

He kisses her temple.

“This isn’t totally clean; there’re a couple of scenes in this one that got cut for the final release,” Adrien grins. “I know you won’t mind, though.”

Marinette kicks her feet, as the opening strains of the _Miraculous_ score fill her room.

\--

_...Ladybug dangles over the edge of a brilliantly lit skyscraper, the streets of Shanghai glittering below her, a riot of rainbow colors painting her ominously. Her lashes sparkle with tears as Hawkmoth’s fingers tighten around her throat; she gasps in pain._

_“Ladybug,” Chat Noir moans where Mayura’s monster has him plastered against a junction box. “Hawkmoth, let her go. Please! It doesn’t have to go this way.”_

_“I’ll spare her,” Hawkmoth snarls, purple eyes glowing in the dark, “if you give me your ring.”_

_Ladybug kicks and thrashes wildly in Hawkmoth’s grip. “Chat--” she croaks, before she is thrust further over the roof’s lip, booted feet kicking uselessly._

_“No!” Chat screams. “Fine! FINE! Take it!”_

_Hawkmoth turns, eyes narrowed. “Take_ WHAT? _”_

_“Take my ring! MY MIRACULOUS!” Chat says desperately. “But put her down. Put her down!”_

\--

“Adrien, I swear,” Marinette gasps, eyes watery. “Where do you die? TELL ME. I need to be prepared!”

“Just watch,” he grins.

\--

_Hawkmoth flicks his fingers at Mayura. Mayura snaps, and the monster drops Chat six feet onto the ground. Before he can fall, his baton extends, and he flips wildly through the air._

_His opponent has anticipated this. Hawkmoth raises his walking stick, slashing Chat Noir straight across the face before he can come anywhere near him. He sweeps down in one smooth motion and latches back onto Ladybug, lifting her up to dangle once more._

_“I’m a man of my word, Chat Noir,” he says. “You break an agreement with me, I break an agreement with you. Mayura?”_

_Mayura manifests a spirit of pure black energy, glueing Chat to the roof. He screams in agony. It is born of his anger, strengthened by his Cataclysm. It burns every inch of him that it touches._

\--

“Oh my god, this is so violent,” Marinette gasps. “How did she fuse a Sentimonster with his Cataclysm? It doesn’t work like that.” 

Adrien shrugs, petting her hair. “Yeah, that’s why it got the reviews it did.”

“Oh my god--OH MY GOD! _NO!_ ”

\--

_Hawkmoth wastes no more time on conversation. He rips an earring straight out of Ladybug’s earlobe, pocketing it. Bridgette’s transformation begins to fail, exposing her pale pink jeans and her right cheek._

_“Ladybug,” Chat gasps, horrified, before his eyes widen. “Bridgette…!”_

_Ladybug is sobbing now, clawing desperately at Hawkmoth’s hands, but without her Lucky Charm, she can’t summon the Miraculous Ladybug, and the charm is currently laying in the street below them._

_“The ring, please, Mayura,” Hawkmoth says._

_Mayura bends down, crushing Chat’s forearm under her heel, grinding down. She yanks Chat’s wrist up at an unnatural angle. The music throbs and pulses. Chat continues to struggle against the monster burning into him, his face contorted with fear and pain._

_The ring slides away from his finger, an anticlimax._

_A close-up on Ladybug’s tear-filled, red eyes as he de-transforms..._

_“Felix,” she gasps. “No.”_

_\--_

“Oh Adrien,” Marinette wails. “What the heck?”

“Just watch, silly.”

\--

_The monster vanishes as Mayura reels back in shock; Hawkmoth gasps._

_“What?” he roars. “No. NO.”_

_Felix lays in a crumpled heap, a mess of blood and tattered clothing as he pants against the roof._

_“Let...her...GO,” he roars, clawing his way toward Hawkmoth._

_“Felix,” Hawkmoth murmurs. His grip on Ladybug slackens. “Felix, I--”_

_He kneels to reach out to the broken, battered young man before him, hands suddenly empty--_

_\--a piercing scream--_

_“BRIDGETTE!”_

\--

“What the HELL?” Marinette roars, jumping up off the chaise, pointing at the screen in accusation. “I thought you meant _YOU_ died!”

Adrien holds his hands up and out, shrugging. “I wasn’t _actually_ going to spoil it for you.”

\--

_Felix lies half-suspended over the edge of the building, arms outstretched, looking for all the world like he’s going to follow her down. A close-up on his face, the music has gone silent, the only sounds the wind whistling past his bare face._

_He stares down into the streets below, awash in misery and disbelief._

_His Lady is gone._

_Hands close around his shoulders, hauling him upright. Large, pale, manicured hands; the hands of a wealthy, pampered man._

_“Son,” the voice of Hawkmoth--the voice of Michael Graham de Vanily--echoes through the silence. “Son. I’m so sorry.”_

_The screen goes black._

\--

“What--” Marinette gasps. Marinette whips around to stare at him. “ _WHAT_?”

The credits roll in the background, a soft, piano melody; the song that played upon Felix and Bridgette’s first meeting, in a minor key.

“YOU JUST GOT LUKE SKYWALKERED,” she yells. “THEY SKYWALKERED FELIX!”

“And they killed Ladybug,” Adrien says sagely, picking at his nails.

“Oh, she’ll be fine, she still had the other half of her earrings--” Marinette explodes again. “HOW THE HELL IS HAWKMOTH YOUR DAD?”

“Felix’s dad.”

“YES! HOW?”

Adrien grins at her, but it’s a bit tentative. “Yeah, the critics aren’t loving this one; _contrived, predictable, unnecessarily complicated,_ are the terms they’re throwing around most.”

The adrenaline from sitting through two hours of favorite-character torture ebbs somewhat as Marinette drops down beside Adrien’s feet. “I mean, the subplot with Mayura’s childhood was a little extraneous, but I didn’t think it was difficult to follow. I liked the fake-out with secretly-akumatized Claude; Tom is so good.” Adrien’s silence continues. “What’s wrong, Adrien? Did they criticize you?”

“Oh no,” Adrien shrugs. “They never criticize me; everyone loves me.” He picks at the cushion. “They’ve been pretty unkind to Chloe, though.”

“Really? I thought this was her best one,” Marinette stretches out to lay on his stomach, anchoring herself by the elbows so that she doesn’t smush him with her full weight.

“People have ‘superhero fatigue.’ That’s what the reviews say.” Adrien says. “They really didn’t like this one in the States; I think it’s only got a seven out of ten on IMDB.”

Marinette’s heart breaks for him. “Adrien, I--”

“I mean, our contract is up on the next one, so…” Adrien gives a dismissive wave. “I mean, if the critics keep panning it, that’s it. You know?” He twists the silvery ring on his right hand. “I mean, most people are tired of playing the same characters after a decade, but...I’m not. I’m still relatively young. I could be him for at least ten more years. Problem is, our viewership isn’t responding well to the darker stuff, and…” He shrugs. “They’re so expensive to make.”

The trickling piano score fades into a pop ballad; a caramelly duet between voices Marinette knows, but can’t place. It’s melancholy, but sweet. 

“Hey,” Marinette says, squeezing him, “ten years from now, if you still want to be Chat, I’ll tell you I do _more_ than a passable Ladybug. I mean, we won’t have the ropes and the rigs and stuff, but I can throw myself off buildings with the best of them. _And_ I’m _great_ with a yo-yo. Nothing wrong with a bit of roleplay.”

He smiles down at her, stroking fingers through her hair, catching in the hair-ties collecting it into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. “Marinette, doesn’t any of this weird you out?”

“Why would it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it doesn’t.”

He sighs. “...I don’t care at all about the salary; I don’t care about...you know. The critics. I just...don’t want to stop doing this. It’s the only thing I’ve enjoyed since...ever. I mean, if this one _really_ tanks, if the studio loses too much money, I...I mean. I won’t be him anymore. Professionally, I _can’t._ I don’t want to be type-cast, obviously, but I also...never want to stop being him.”

“So don’t,” Marinette shrugs. “Chat’s already a pretty great actor too, right, if he has to be Felix when he’s out of uniform? So no reason both of you can’t play anyone else.”

He blinks at her, hand sliding to cup her cheek. Every breath he takes pushes up into her, the rise and fall of his chest a kind of buoy. “That’s kind of brilliant.”

“Oh, well, as a baker, I can say I am CERTAINLY _far-better_ qualified to offer you acting advice than any of the bajillion award-winning actors you work with,” Marinette laughs, feeling her face heat up as her embarrassment sets in.

“No, it’s comforting,” he says gently, as his arm comes up to circle her, low across her hips. “I’m glad I don’t...you know. Worry you.”

“Oh, you do,” Marinette insists. “Anybody with that many puns ready on-hand spends way too much time googling Dad Jokes in their free time.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Adrien gasps. “I am not a pun-giarist. I work strictly off-the-cuff.”

“I found a few good ones this week!” Marinette declares, scootching up his body, making him go _oof,_ back arching slightly, as she squishes into the planes of his stomach. His legs fall sideways, feet falling to the floor as his thighs spread, so that she slots between them.

“You ready?” she asks, giving a little wiggle.

His pupils are suddenly very wide. “Mm-hmm,” he murmurs vaguely.

“Did you hear about the silk worm race?” she asks.

“Of course. It ended in a tie,” Adrien says sagely, trying very discreetly to readjust his hips. That’s kind of a difficult feat to pull off, though, given that she’s draped all over him. “Come on, that’s an old one.” 

She beams at him. He actually shivers a little, and Marinette can feel his adductors trembling ever so slightly.

Hot damn. So _that’s_ how you catch an Adrien. 

She tries not to make it too obvious how pleased with herself she is. “Okay, okay. Right. So you know Napoleon?”

“I’ve never met him personally--” he smirks, and it’s deceptively lazy, because now his stomach muscles have gone very tight. He is very much engaged in this conversation.

“--well. He may not have designed his coat, but he _did_ have a hand in it.”

Adrien barks a laugh, eyes twinkling. “That’s really silly.”

“Yes, yes. How about this one? We’ve been having problems with our neighbors, right--”

“--oh no, really?” 

“Shush, let me do my thing.”

He swallows. “Yes, Mlle. Bread.”

“So _anyway_ ,” Marinette pretends that she’s just super casually adjusting her shorts, and _definitely_ not grinding on him (if he gasps, she pretends not to notice), “we’ve been having problems, so we decided to put up an electric fence. Our neighbors are dead against it, though.”

Marinette waits expectantly, grin bright. “Huh? Huh?”

“Marinette,” Adrien says, trying (read: failing) to school his expression into something deadpan. “That was positively shocking.”

“Mmm, maybe, yes. Perhaps I should amp up my skills.”

He shifts again, face going a bit purple. The arm he’d had around her hip slips further downward, and now his fingers are digging, pleasantly, into the curve of muscle beneath her boyshort’s completely unnecessary back pocket. “Oh, don’t short-circuit your brain trying to come up with anything more original,” he says, voice gone husky.

“Adrien Agreste,” she grins back, “am I really turning you on with _puns_?”

“You call those puns?” he says, grip going quite firm, fingers curling.

She shivers happily as he rolls up into her, just a small, fluid motion from his hips. “I dunno, I think I’m--I think I’m doing a pretty decent job.”

“It hertz sometimes, trying to find your flow, but it will come over time,” he says, eyes falling half-lidded as he smiles at her, licking his lips, and _yes,_ she can now say, without question, that wordplay turns him on. “Don’t worry, Mari. With more practice, I really think you conduit.”

“Damn,” Marinette breathes. “You just charged right in with those ones, didn’t you? You’re really getting my juice--Mmmph!”

He growls as he finally smashes their mouths together, hands digging into soft pyjama fabric and softer skin. When he kisses her, sucking her lower lip right between his teeth with zero pretense, his entire body folds around her, like the petals of a flower closing at night. 

Things progress fairly quickly after that.

She’s got his shirt off, straddling him, and he’s sucking on her neck, when a sharp knock comes at the trap door, and they’re both so annoyed that they yell, simultaneously, “WHAT?!!”

A thud from the steps below tells Marinette that Nino just slipped, and then Alya cackles loudly. 

“Oh, uh--sorry guys,” Nino calls back. “We didn’t know you were up there, Adrien--”

“We really didn’t,” Alya adds. “We _were_ asleep, like _sane_ people.”

“He’s been here for like three hours!” Marinette yells back, pushing finger-messy hair out of her face. 

“So he showed up at 1 a.m.? Do we have to set a curfew for you two?”

Marinette checks the time on her phone, and balks. 

“Oh no,” she gasps. “How do we have to be at work, like...soon?!!”

“...yeah,” says Nino

Adrien gently peels Marinette off of him, detangling their legs before popping off the lounge and flipping open the door. He doesn’t bother to straighten out his hair or put his shirt back on, though. He smiles with excessive politeness as he peers down at their visitors.

“Sorry I never let you know I was here, you two,” he demures. “What can we do for you?”

Both Nino and Alya have the decency to look sheepish as their heads pop up through the door.

“Can you guys turn the TV down, please?” Nino asks, sounding very embarrassed. “Sorry, it’s just really loud, and it’s really late.”

“Not to mention the _spoilers,_ ” Alya adds.

Marinette goes “ugh” and smacks herself. Somehow they must’ve lost the remote under Adrien at some point; she knows they hadn’t started the movie over again.

“I’m really sorry, everybody,” she says, rubbing a hand over her face. She is going to be _dead_ tomorrow. Today.

“It’s okay, Mari,” Alya says in her best mom-tone. “Just let us know next time if you’re bringing boys over.”

“ _Alya,_ ” Marinette moans, mortified.

Alya snickers as she shuts the door above them, and their steps echo softly down the hall.

\--

If Marinette falls asleep for a second while filling macarons a few hours later, Nino is kind enough not to say anything.

\--

Adrien’s week is fairly busy; they don’t get a chance to go out again until the following weekend. He _still_ doesn’t have much time, but he explains that hopefully the week after will be more open. 

It’s another late night, and Marinette _definitely_ shouldn’t stay up again, but he’d set up the reservations at Camille’s as soon as Nathalie cleared his schedule, so...it might be a little selfish, asking her to drop everything and do whatever he asks, simply because his schedule is so much crazier than hers is...but…

Adrien hasn’t ever felt this way before. He’s read about it; he’s _played_ it. His parents had love like this once. When he was a little boy, his mother would hold him in her arms, and tell him stories about what it was like to be young. The first moment their eyes met, across a stage in Milan, Emilie knew that she’d never meet anyone else like Gabriel, and that was that.

It’s fantasy, of course; their marriage was nothing like a fairytale after all, and Emilie had been the one to disappear, in the end. But Adrien, at the heart of him, is a romantic. 

G arrives at the bakery to pick Marinette up. The nights are growing warmer; June is approaching fast. Marinette is dressed for it.

She’s in her red stockings again, though her dress is different; it’s pale pink, short as the day is long, shimming, strapless, gossamer, and form-fitting. Her hair is straight and silky, tucked behind ears glimmering with a collection of red studs. Adrien’s breath catches in his throat. She is beautiful.

He trips as he opens the door for her, black shoe catching in the car’s carpeting, and she giggles behind her hand. She’s done her nails again, in black this time. She looks like a Valentine’s card.

“Hi, Princess,” he says, doofy.

“I knew you’d fallen for me,” she says, smooth as anything, and he’s half tempted to just sling her over his shoulder again, march her up to the roof, and spend the night ravishing her on a lawn chair.

“Fall- _ing,_ present-tense,” he says instead, and she crawls into the seat and shuts the door while he’s still doing a stupid bow.

Why is he _bowing?_ What the hell is wrong with him?

When he slides into the seat beside her, she’s inching the hem of her tiny dress back down her thighs.

Her stockings are topped in bands of black lace, held up with rose-printed suspenders.

Yeah. 

Adrien is going to die tonight.

\--

The street below Camille’s is quiet as ever, dark, un-touched by the glow of the streetlamps. He opens the black access door with the keycode, and Alexandre answers.

“Hi, Xan,” Adrien says. “Nice to see you again.”

“Is this your guest?” Alexandre asks, as Adrien passes him his coat. 

“It is,” he nods. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, this is Alexandre Brodeur. She’s on the list, yeah?”

“She is,” he says. He’s a stiff, formal man, and Adrien’s known him for most of his life. “It is lovely to meet you, Mlle. Any friend of Adrien’s is a friend of ours. Right this way.”

He leads them to the old, caged lift, a remnant of the jazz era, and Adrien watches Marinette’s eyes light up as she takes in its golden curlicues and molded peacocks.

The doors close around them, and the bellhop punches in their floor number.

“This is the prettiest elevator I’ve ever seen,” Marinette whispers, staring down at the toes of her red shoes. They perfectly match her stockings, almost as though they’d been dyed together. Thinking about it, Adrien thinks they probably were, given that it’s Marinette wearing them. The effect makes her legs stretch for ages.

“I want to wear the carpet,” she says, and the bellhop gives an amused little chuckle.

“Ah, sorry,” Marinette says, thinking she must sound silly. Adrien gives her a reassuring squeeze around the waist.

“Oh no, Mlle.,” the bellhop says, “it is very beautiful indeed. We forget it’s there, don’t we, Adrien?”

Adrien has to agree with that. He takes a moment to reacquaint himself. Indeed, it is lovely; it is plush and colorful and printed with peacock tails and pomegranates.

“They say it’s a Perrot,” the bellhop says, smiling warmly at Marinette, “but I have my doubts.”

“A Perrot,” Marinette breathes, pushing herself up onto her tiptoes, as though she can’t stand the idea of walking on it.

Adrien dissolves into _dust_ , and he can’t quite resist pushing a kiss into her hair, even though...well. He probably should. They are in public now, and all.

\--

Taking Marinette to stupidly fancy places is Adrien’s new favorite thing. She takes everything in with wonder, even though, to be perfectly fair, Camille’s isn’t really much to look at, comparatively. Yes, it still has its original stained glass windows, as it managed to survive the ‘40s (probably because the owner made a deal with Satan), and the original golden-beamed ceiling, and all the furniture is white leather and the tables are ebony wood. The lamp hanging above them is Tiffany, antique, imported, and costs more than Marinette’s entire bedroom put together, probably; the coasters are marble, sure. But...

...okay, Camille’s _is_ pretty lovely, in a gauche, grandmotherly kind of way. It is beautiful, no matter what everyone else he knows might have to say about it.

“What would you like to drink, Mlle.?” Claudette, their waitress, asks.

“Oh, I don’t know...Adrien mentioned the house tempranillo…?”

“What year would you prefer?”

“Uh--” Marinette flicks her eyes nervously in Adrien’s direction, and Adrien smiles at her. 

“2019, please,” he says. “And the same for me, of course.”

Claudette disappears into the glittering crowd, chestnut hair shimmering copper under the dim light.

“Even the waitresses are beautiful,” she sighs.

Adrien tries not to fond at her so hard it reaches creep-level, but he can’t help himself.

“Holy crap,” Marinette whispers, gripping Adrien’s hand, nodding at a man a few tables away, half-obscured by the paper screen that cuts their table off from the rest of the dining room. “That’s XY’s new manager, the one that picked him up after all of that...really terrible stuff with his dad's label.”

“And XY’s _wife,_ ” Adrien says lowly, winking. “Don’t stare at them too long, they’ll invite you to join them.”

Marinette laughs at this, at the absurdity. Thing is, Adrien’s not joking. Marinette is fucking gorgeous, and the lighting does nothing but emphasize that. He kind of wants to lick her.

“Literally everyone here is famous,” she whispers, “except me.”

“Yeah, and the only people I’d voluntarily hang out with are the waitstaff,” Adrien mutters, trying not to sound _too_ bitchy. Marinette scoffs at him. “You’re not uncomfortable, are you? I mean, we can go--”

“No, no!” Marinette says quickly. “I’m cool. I’m _super_ cool.”

“Darn,” Adrien sighs, flicking idly through a menu, pretending to read it, “I was hoping you’d say yes, so I could take you home and…” Without looking, he reaches down to find a suspender, and he gives it a little snap.

“Adrien!” she gasps, before breaking into a mess of loopy giggling. 

“Sorry, I saw them in the car. They’re really pretty,” he laughs softly, cheeks flushing just slightly, nudging her with his shoulder. She nudges back, hooking a finger into the nearest trouser pocket.

“I made them,” she whispers back, breath ghosting toothpaste-fresh over his jaw, making him tingle. “I have _tons_ of them.”

\--

Marinette calms down after a little while, even finding the self-possession to go to the bar to order a cocktail for herself when she doesn’t actually like the wine. That baffles him a little, because it’s one of the best wines _anywhere,_ according to people who know stuff about wine, but as he drinks it, he kind of gets what her issues are. It _is_ , as she’d described it, “a bit dusty.”

That makes Adrien question something about himself, but he’s not sure what.

When she comes back with her Kir Royale, she seems extremely self-satisfied.

“The guy at the bar just asked me if I was the woman that designed the album cover for _Rock Giant,_ ” Marinette beams. “They really do research their guests, don’t they?”

“Look at you! First time out with me, and you’re already getting confused for other celebrities. That happens all the time; someone thought I was Ryan Gossling the other week; they were like, ‘I love you so much, _The Notebook_ changed my life--’”

“No, I mean, he _recognized_ me,” Marinette says, voice wispy with amazement. “That was me!”

“Wait, you _did_ ?” Adrien’s heart does a little jump; he _is_ a sucker for talent, after all.

“Yeah, of course I did,” she says brightly. “When I was in college. That’s why I have that shirt.”

“Get _out,_ ” Adrien gasps, though this time it’s for dramatic effect. “I had that poster on my wall for years.”

“Seriously, that was me,” Marinette presses. “I still get royalties sometimes.”

Adrien shakes his head, astonished; he wonders, for the thousandth time since meeting her, what she’s doing working in a bakery.

\--

They talk about everything and nothing: what Marinette’s childhood was like (happy), what Adrien’s childhood was like (...not so happy), what they’d wanted to be when they grew up (Marinette wanted to BE Gabriel Agreste, basically, though Adrien has to hold back exactly what he thinks of _that_ when she tells him, and Adrien had wanted to be a dad). They touch briefly on Marinette’s divorce: how she and Luka ended simply, without much fanfare, the romance dying delicately over the course of many years. They’d married on a whim, when they were _very_ young, and Marinette thinks that it was perhaps out of desperation...Luka had been incredibly distraught over his mother’s illness at the time, and she’d just wanted to see him happy. They’d both known Kagami for ages, and though they’d never been unfaithful to one another, Marinette thought it best, at the end, to let him be with the woman he very obviously loved, who DEFINITELY loved him back. It makes Adrien a bit misty-eyed, that story, because, though Marinette doesn’t seem at all distraught, he simply can’t imagine falling out of love with her. 

Adrien talks about the modeling: how he’s never really known anything _but_ being a sex symbol, how he used to personally hand-write fan letters. He’d spend hours with them spread out all over his bedroom floor, trying to make sure every reply was sincere and personal, until he’d landed the Chat role and he’d suddenly begun drowning in them. He tells her about finding Chat; of how running his highlighter over those first lines in his screen test script had felt like coming home. Nobody’d wanted him to take it, none of the people who were close to him professionally, anyway, because he was a _serious_ artist who did _serious_ things, but...there was just something about him, about _Chat,_ that made Adrien feel free, and seen, and whole. He talks a little bit about the therapy sessions. He is quiet when he recounts his father’s constant worry for him and his mental health in those early years: when he’d find Adrien spinning around in the kitchen talking to his cat, or flirting with the paparazzi because it was easier than trying to be _perfect_ all the time. 

Marinette is quiet through this, until she says, “I don’t see a problem with you being Chat. If you suppress who you really are, that’s no better for you, is it? You don’t think you’re _Felix;_ you don’t think you’ve got an actual Miraculous, so who cares if you named your cat Plagg? I named my dog Sam when I was little, but that didn’t make me think I needed to go drop all my jewelry into a _volcano._ ”

It’s extremely nice to meet someone who understands him, and doesn’t judge him, and doesn’t push him to _be_ anything. Just _being_ with Marinette is enough, and Adrien has never, _ever_ felt like he was enough.

~~~~--~~~~

The hours they spend at that little table melt away into nothing. They are barely two drinks in, with only one dish ordered so far, and the bar has already begun to clear for the night. It isn’t quite last call, but it can’t be far off. Every minute that passes, Marinette folds herself ever more intricately into his heart, with her stories and her puns and her teasing touches to his neck and the crook of his elbow and his knees under the table. Adrien is getting to the point where he’s so keyed up and coiled that he’s considering just dropping all pretenses and dragging Marinette back to the hotel so they can finally, _finally_ just make-out properly, with nobody to interrupt them, when Marinette’s delicious delicate stroking pauses on his wrist.

“Oh, I thought they were,” she says softly, eyes narrowing somewhere over the arm he has curled around her neck. “Those guys are definitely talking about you.”

“Ha!” Adrien grins at her. “Nothing I’m not used to.”

Marinette doesn’t seem impressed with that; in fact, her expression, which has been so starry-eyed and dazzled and happy all night, has morphed into something quite dark. He’s only got a vague recollection of Marinette ever looking like this; he hasn’t seen much of an angry Marinette, truthfully.

“Oh, Mari, don’t worry, they just--”

“Shhh,” she hisses, little hand clamping around his wrist like a vice. She’s got a crazy strong grip.

Adrien nuzzles into her hair, falling quiet as commanded.

“--he’s a complete slut. He’d probably pay _you_ to fuck him. You see that last commercial he did for Côte-d'Or chocolate? It was practically one long orgasm,” one of the men at the table across from them is saying--oh, it’s one of the presenters, one of the comics from the Buzzfeed gig. He’s squeezed himself between Veronique DuPont-Roth and the man who Marinette had pinned as XY’s new manager; Adrien thinks his name is Pierre, maybe. A few other people have joined them, too; there’s someone he thinks he recognizes as Ashleigh. Ashleigh is some sort of pop singer, or something...he doesn’t really know. Either way, they’re a bunch of industry people; he’s not too fussed whether or not they’re talking about him, because all industry people gossip sometimes, especially the people that don’t have to worry about getting in trouble for it.

“Seriously, I met him the other day. He was all over _everyone,_ ” says Ashleigh, and oh yeah; that’s why he remembers her, she was at the premiere with one of the camera guys. She is very obviously drunk. “I mean, he’s a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen.”

He laughs a little at that; _she’d_ been all over _him._

“Forget sexual harassment, he’s completely fucking crazy, just like his parents,” says Veronique. “You know Xavi’s going around with that fucking co-star of his--”

“Oh my god, what is her name? Chloe Butterface?”

They have a hearty laugh at this, and Adrien sighs.

“Oh, Marinette, don’t--” he starts.

“How _dare_ they?” Marinette hisses.

“Well, knowing Xavi, he was probably so high he didn't know _what_ he was messing around with--"

\--they laugh at this like it’s hilarious--

“--and knowing _her,_ that’s just what she was looking for.”

“You know, I heard it was the Agreste kid that got her into all that stuff,” says manager-nobody, like he has any idea about anything at all, “he’s a fucking mess.”

“Now that’s not even remotely true,” Adrien mutters into Marinette’s scalp. She _growls._

“No. Really?” Veronique is saying.

“Oh yeah. Goes around wearing his Chat ring all the time; he never turns it off.”

“Makes sense, because he certainly can’t act. Seriously, he’s got zero talent. He’s good at two things: being pretty, and jumping off things. You know those films are only popular because kids are idiots and all the adults want to fuck him.”

“I’d fuck him,” says Veronique jovially. “I bet he’s filthy. All those boys are.”

“Which boys?”

“You know, his little brat pack he runs around with. They’re all disgusting, like really disgusting. You can see it in their eyes. They’re all easy because they’re pretty and _sad_ and nobody loves them--” she mimes crying at them, and that’s when Adrien slips his arm off of Marinette’s shoulder.

Enough.

“Come on, let’s leave,” he says to her, patting her back. “I’ll just get the bill.”

Marinette is seething. She is _enraged_. Her eyes are so red and tear-filled, and she’s shaking so hard, he’s afraid she’s going to explode.

“--well look at his fucking father!” one of the guys crows.

“Oh, man, Agreste is no joke. You _know_ he beat them.” Ashleigh sighs. "Isn't it just so _sad?_ "

“Beat them? He _murdered_ Emilie,” Veronique laughs. She _laughs_ as she says this. “Probably made little Adrien _watch._ ”

The table all agrees heartily, shaking their heads, and they start throwing around _theories_ about it. Adrien goes cold, stilling where he’s beginning to climb out of his chair.  
Marinette slams her fists against their own tabletop so hard that she bounces her glass straight over.

“How DARE you,” she roars, and Adrien gasps.

To his horror, she stomps straight over to them, picks up a glass of water, and throws it in Veronique’s face.

“How fucking _dare_ you talk about him that way,” she shouts, and the table stares at her in amused shock. Veronique wipes water from her eyes, giving another little laugh. “Who gave you the right?!! You don’t know him! You’ve seen him at one premiere, _you, ASHLEIGH,_ with your _HANDS_ all over him; _and you..._ you’ve filmed him _once--_ and _you--”_ She points straight in Veronique’s face, causing her to tilt far back enough in her chair that she nearly tips over.

The restaurant staff is on alert now; Adrien can see a bouncer coming toward them.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the guys goes, and Veronique holds up her hand to stop the bouncer in his tracks. Adrien doesn’t like the look on her face. She’s grinning with all her teeth, feral. 

They think Marinette is funny.

“What does it matter _WHO_ I am? Who the fuck are _you?_ ” she snaps, punching _their_ table now. “You think it’s okay to treat people like objects? To joke around about other people’s family tragedies? What the _fuck_ kind of people do that? You think you’re just so above it all that it’s _okay?_ You're the _trash!_ ”

They look her over, and they all burst out laughing. “What, are you in the _fan club_ or something? Kiss his poster every night? Get the fuck out of here, unless you’re going to give us a reason to be happy to see you.”

The guy slaps her ass. 

Adrien's vision goes completely red, and he bites so hard into the side of his cheek that he draws blood. He throws a bunch of bills in the vague direction of where he'd been seated, charging forward two seconds before the bouncer can get to Marinette. 

Before he can reach her, though, Marinette loses her shit.

She grabs the man's arm, twisting it up and back between his shoulder blades, planting her hand against the nape of his neck and thrusting him forward until his nose is inches from the tablecloth. Suddenly the glitterati don’t look so amused.

“Apologize. Now." Marinette snarls. "To BOTH of us.”

The bouncer is approaching fast and hot now, so Adrien decides enough is enough. He very gently extricates Marinette from XY’s manager. 

“Hi, everyone,” Adrien says, putting on his most apologetic voice, but they can all sense the poison in it. Adrien has never been so angry in his life. “As you can see, my friend is extremely protective.”

The bouncer rounds on Marinette. Adrien’s got her firmly in his grip now, though, shielding her from him with his back.

“Oh,” goes Veronique, water still dripping down her face. “Adrien. Hi. Where were you sitting? We could’ve...said...hello.”

Everyone--the entire restaurant--is silent.

Adrien smiles smoothly, baring all of his teeth. “Oh, don’t stop talking for _our_ sake. Have a good time. Enjoy yourselves.” His seething brain short circuits as he stares down at the man who’d SLAPPED Marinette, and his mouth runs away from him. “You should do it now, you know, while you still can, before my _father_ finds out you touched my girlfriend.” He smiles at all of them. “I mean, what with our track record for murder and all...ha ha! Anyway! Have a nice night!”

With that, he tucks Marinette under his arm, and strolls them toward the lift. Marinette vibrates like a plucked string against him, eyes blown wide, her shoulders shaking so hard he can see the muscles twitching. She’s so pissed her teeth are chattering.

~~

Once he’s back down in the foyer, waiting for his coat, he melts in horror.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my _god,_ ” he moans, covering his face. “That--that was bad. Marinette, are you okay? I can't--I'm so sorry I exposed you to _them,_ I--I've never--I'm so _angry--_ ”

"I'm fine. I--I'm--you SHOULD be angry, I'm FURIOUS--" Marinette is quivering beside him, eyes filling rapidly with tears, and she breaks down as soon as he looks at her. “I’m so sorry--oh god, _oh god,_ I’m so sorry, I--I don’t--that stuff they were saying about you, I couldn’t--”

“No, I love that you tried,” he insists. “Nobody knows who you are; they can't retaliate--but--but _me_ \--” He stares at his hands for three seconds before realization dawns on him. Why is he talking about himself? Why is it always about him? Marinette has just--she just--

No, Marinette isn’t anyone. All of those people she’d screamed at _are_. She’d gone up to them without a second thought--she didn’t care who they were, or what she knew them from. She’d gone right up to them and--

\--God. She’d thrown a glass of water in Veronique DuPont-Roth’s face, for _him._

“I love you,” he says abruptly, the realization slamming into him harder than Marinette’s fists had the table. 

Marinette gives one last sniffle, shoulders hunched up, as though to make herself seem smaller.

Alexandre passes his coat to him, murmuring apologies, but Adrien waves him off. 

“Come on,” Adrien says, pulling her into the night, not bothering to call for G. The hotel is across the street; he wants to walk with her.

\--

Marinette is in something of a daze as she and Adrien head...somewhere; she’s not totally sure where they are right now, even though she knows practically all of Paris by heart. Her brain just isn’t in sync with her surroundings. She stumbles over an uneven bit of sidewalk; Adrien, who has been silent since he...since he said he loves her--

_he loves her_

\--gently catches her in his arms before she can meet the pavement.

“Careful there, Princess,” he says softly, sweeping her up into his embrace, tilting her chin up so she can look up at him. “It would be an actual human tragedy if you tore those stockings.”

“Not if you tore them for me,” she answers automatically, before the enormity of what has happened sinks in again. “Adrien, I’m--I’m so sorry, I just--I just acted without thinking--”

“I wish you would’ve broken his arm,” he says softly. “You could’ve broken all of them. Who cares? Marinette, that was--that was _amazing._ And...don’t worry about anything. I wasn’t kidding about that...that... _brute_ touching you. I could have him like that.” He snaps. “I’ll fucking sue him for everything if I have to, okay? I’m serious. It’s okay.”

“Do you mean it?”

“I mean it’s okay with me,” he runs his fingers down her face. “It’s fine.”

“You love me,” Marinette says, voice just a beat of butterfly’s wings.

He goes all soft and glossy-irised and red.

“Do you want to come up?” he asks, caressing her, and it’s so hopeful it’s almost enough to wash away all of the unpleasantness coating the inside of her firework-brain like engine sludge.

“Is that--” she swallows. “Is that okay?”

“It’s wonderful.” He presses his lips against her forehead, lingering as he begs. “ _Please_ come up.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed, heart pounding in her chest.

“Give me five minutes, okay? You know where I am,” Adrien says, and then he’s pulling away from her, winking ridiculously as he twirls through the carousel doors. 

Her brain makes a joke about carnivals; how her life has become a circus.

Forget carousels. She’s flying through the air on a trapeze. Paris moves around her, the cars and the lights and the people, but it’s as though she’s seeing everything from above, like she’ll never touch the ground again.

Adrien _loves_ her.

\--

She takes the stairs rather than the lift, because she can’t bother waiting. She takes the steps two at a time, never minding a single ankle-roll or slip of her heel, and by the time she reaches Adrien’s floor, she’s panting harder than she does when she’s out jogging. 

Pssh. Like she needs oxygen. Her entire body is fueled by serotonin and dopamine. She’ll never be sad again.

When she arrives at Adrien’s door, he throws it open before she even has to knock. He slams it behind him, staring down at her, hair wild.

“Hi, Mari, I--”

“Hi, Adrien,” she says back, before latching onto his neck and pulling him down for a very thorough kiss. His hands come to grip her hips, digging in hard enough to bruise, and she gasps a little, molding her entire body against every inch of his that she can touch. 

He doesn’t hug her back--in fact, with the hands he has gripping her pelvis, he shoves her backwards with a little too much force. She wobbles in her heels.

“I--” Marinette gasps. “Sorry Adrien, what’s--”

“You’ve got to go,” he says, voice shaking, eyes massive, pupils blown.

“What? Why?”

“Just...trust me, just go, _go--”_

Marinette doesn’t like the sound of that. That sounds an awful lot like...something she doesn’t want to imagine. “Why, you hiding another girl in there? Have the cops come to arrest me for--for assault?” she jokes, and she really hopes it isn’t true.

“What?!! No, _no--_ it’s--” he swallows. “It’s my father. My father is here.”

“Wait--” 

Okay, well, she hadn’t been expecting that.

“Your dad is here? Is--is that bad? I mean, I know he’s kind of unpleas--”

“You’ve _got to go,_ ” he pleads, as his door suddenly flies open behind him again.

“Adrien,” comes a deep, cello-creak of a voice from somewhere over Adrien’s shoulder. “Who is this?”

Adrien freezes, eyes falling closed, sagging in defeat for all of two seconds. _Oh, fuck,_ he mouths, hands slipping off of her.

This pose lasts less than a moment. Marinette sees in an instant the way his entire being transforms into someone else. His face changes, his shoulders square, his jaw sets.

Her Adrien is gone.

“It’s just room service, Father,” Other-Adrien says, smooth as anything. 

Marinette doesn’t know why that hurts so badly; it shouldn’t, of course Adrien doesn’t want anyone to know who she is, at least--well, he hadn’t seemed to mind so much about five minutes ago, but...but this is Gabriel Agreste, his _father,_ not some paparazzo or…

She peers into the room, and there he is, Marientte’s actual hero. He’s dressed in sleek red and silver, his colorful tie artful rather than tacky, silvery hair slicked into a pomp at the crest of his head. His eyes are sharp grey behind indigo lenses; nothing like Adrien’s, lined at the corners, burning. He looks her over, studying every centimeter, and he…

...he scowls.

“I believe there was a sign on the doorknob,” he says tersely, and Marinette swallows.

“Oh, it’s alright, Father,” Adrien says, and even his _voice_ is different, “I was just about to order dinner.”

“Weren’t you just out to dinner?”

“Oh no, it was a meeting with Antoine.” Adrien lies so smoothly Marinette actually questions if they’d been together or not.

Gabriel is still staring at her, even though his next question is certainly not directed her way. “That’s interesting. Antoine wrote to me this morning. Apparently it’s nearly impossible to be penciled into your schedule.” Gabriel finally, _finally_ looks away from her. “Glad to hear you’ve finally remembered you’re here to do your job, and not to…” Oh god, no, he’s looking at her again. “Dumpster dive.”

The room seems to spin a little. Marinette tries not to tremble. 

Marinette does not dare hazard a glance at Adrien.

“Aren’t you meant to be in some sort of uniform?” Gabriel asks her. 

“Oh, I--” she swallows. “I just clocked out. I just figured--since it was Adrien asking and all, I’d take...one last. Um. Order.”

“Sorry, Father, if I’d known you’d be here, I wouldn’t have called for anyone,” Adrien says, and with horrible, slow deliberateness, he rounds on her. “Can I have the coque-au-vin, and a bottle of chardonnay, please, Mlle…?”

Marinette stares at him, before catching up. “Bridgette,” she says in a rush. “I’m. Um. Bridgette.”

Adrien winces, but since his face is turned toward her, Gabriel can’t have seen it. 

“Coque-au-vin?” Gabriel raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Perfect for a cut, isn’t it?” Marinette can see the slight tremor in Adrien’s arm as the fist closest to her closes, tight and strained. 

“ _Bridgette,_ was it? If you don’t mind,” Gabriel says this like she better not, “I’d like something too. Please bring up a bottle of Salon Blanc. 2002, please; nothing later. No point paying exorbitant prices if it’s going to taste like carbonated rubbing alcohol. And _one_ glass of chardonnay only, please.” He shakes his head slightly at Adrien, derision directed at his son’s waistline. 

Marinette can feel the tears beginning to sting in her eyes again, and for the life of her, she can’t figure out why. Who is she to Gabriel Agreste, her idol? She’s nobody. It’s not like a week into the relationship she’s even ready to introduce Adrien to _her_ parents, no way. Nobody does that. This is all perfectly fine.

She’s fine.

This is all...fine.

Adrien says nothing.

Gabriel turns around to make his way back toward the bedroom, before stilling and turning back to her. “And also, if you can be _bothered_ , please clear the waste-bins, and refresh the towels, won’t you? This room is disgusting; I wouldn’t be surprised if Adrien had decided to invite the whole of Paris up here.”

He stands there, watching them. Marinette and Adrien are both frozen to the spot.

“Well? Are they paying you to _gape_ at me?” Gabriel snaps. “Go!”

Marinette crosses into the room on shaking legs to reach for a plastic waste bin that isn’t half-full, sweeping a single washcloth smudged lightly with makeup from the dressing table.

“And don’t forget. _One glass._ Not a bottle,” Gabriel says. “Adrien, pay her.”

Marinette, arms full of trash, straightens, crossing to the doorway. 

Adrien’s staring at her, and he's completely, utterly blank.

He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket--it’s Gucci.

It's monogrammed. 

Of course it is.

He presses a hundred into her hands, and, empty eyes now fixed on the floor, closes the door in her face.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry
> 
> it gets better i promise


	9. Chapter 9

Adrien stands uselessly in his suite’s sitting room, and he almost cannot believe how absolutely crushingly horrible he feels. He has experienced this feeling once, one _singularly awful_ time, when he was thirteen, and Nathalie had taken him into the gardens to tell him his mother was gone. 

He has a similar sense of loss and betrayal now.

His father sits in the chair across from him--the white one, the same one Marinette had freaked out in just a couple of weeks before. Adrien’s hands don’t shake as he stares at his iPad screen, because he’s trained himself over years and years never to show any sign of weakness in front of his family; his mother, because she’d been smothering, and his father, because Adrien knows his father is emotionally incapable of handling it. 

Adrien is torn between wishing he’d told his father to fuck off and had just followed Marinette back home to the bakery, where he could pretend everything is just fine and nothing bad has ever happened to him in his life...and flying back home to LA NOW and never looking back.

Why? _Why_ had he made the mistake of trusting them?

...he knows exactly why, of course.

Because he wanted to.

“I’m curious, Adrien, as to why you thought having a complete mental breakdown in the same week that you’re about to lose your superhero franchise was a good idea,” Gabriel says, fingers steepled at his nose. “It’s not the _best_ business move you’ve ever made.”

“I’m not having a breakdown,” Adrien says automatically. And it’d been a true statement, up until seventeen minutes ago, when his father had forced him to sit through the first five minutes of Lila Rossi’s YouTube interview for _Voici’s_ digital subscribers.

The video already has nine hundred thousand, three hundred and twenty seven views, and it’s only been posted for a few hours. It’s unlisted. The statistics are still rising. There are so many thumbs-up reactions, it’s got to have racked up a profit of at least a hundred thousand euro.

The comments, though...god, the comments. The comments alone would have him crumpled up in the bathroom, but the context makes the insults and wild speculation pale by comparison. The interview is horrible. It’s so intrusive, it’s so _accusatory,_ it’s so...

...it’s all so true.

“That’s interesting,” Gabriel says, unblinking. “Veronique DuPont-Roth seems to think otherwise. She sends her _deepest_ apologies, by the way. I’m happy to inform you that Pierre is fine.”

Adrien squeezes the screen so hard color blossoms from its edge.

Oh, his Marinette.

His sweet, beautiful Mari. 

Marinette can’t have done this to him.

She simply can’t have.

“Father, I’m _not_ going to lose Chat Noir,” he says calmly, “and I’m _not_ having a breakdown.” He tries to breathe. “Veronique was completely out of line. She was talking about Maman.”

“So it’s unacceptable for a respected colleague to slander your mother at a private dinner party, but _perfectly_ acceptable for _you_ to slander yourself, and _me;_ the entire FAMILY in public.”

“Father, I never meant for any of this…” Adrien’s voice cracks, “...to be posted _anywhere_ …”

“And not only do you-- _hypocritically--_ find it unacceptable, you think resorting to physical violence in a place like _Camille’s--_ ”

“No one _attacked_ anyone,” Adrien says, and it very nearly breaks his resolve. “You _know_ Veronique, you _know_ that isn’t something I’d do without due cause, and _I_ didn’t do it, anyway. I simply...I told her...”

Adrien’s voice trails off. Lila is talking again on-screen, saying something about the years of isolation that Adrien has experienced; his years of therapy.

...the state of his relationships; a McDonalds in Iowa...falling asleep drunk on the floor at house parties; spending his time with gushing fans rather than his equals, who find him worrying...he can't even use an oven; what kind of upbringing must he have had, that he can't perform simple life tasks? How removed from reality is he...?

Fuck.

His chest constricts so tightly that he knows he’s going to have to go sit for a while in the restroom, in peace. He can’t be here. He’s going to have a panic attack. He can’t have a panic attack in front of his father.

 _God_ , those...those people…

His Marinette.

 _Not_ Marinette.

“So,” Gabriel goes on. “That girl you came home with. Was she the one who so expertly executed the, what was it? The seated half-nelson?”

“It wasn’t a half-nelson, Jesus _Christ.”_ Adrien hears the screen crack more than he feels it. He doesn’t feel anything, apart from boiling, churning grief.

...and yet here he is, trying to defend the woman who has _ruined_ him.

“Is she, what, one of the stunt girls? Surely you haven’t made the mistake of getting involved with the help again.”

“I--” Adrien’s breath is stilted. He’s done. He’s _done._ He places the ipad on the floor, making his way toward the bathroom. “Father. I can’t have this conversation.”

“ _Who is she,_ Adrien?” his father presses. “Because surely _you_ didn’t willingly share this information with that woman from _Voici._ Surely you wouldn’t do that to us. To _yourself._ ”

Adrien takes nice, normal, measured steps across the room, hand finding the knob to the bathroom with near pinpoint-precision. “No, she’s just some fan,” he shrugs. “You know how the crazy ones are. Don’t worry about it, Father. Just give me a few minutes, alright?”

He locks himself in the toilet, stepping into the shower, sliding down the wall to bury his head in his knees.

It is with dawning horror that he realizes he’d meant it, what he’d said about Marinette. Because that’s really all she is, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter if she wasn’t the one who’d said anything; one of them did. One of those people had, and they are Marinette’s people, and she was the one who’d insisted they were fine, and they _weren’t;_ they weren’t, and…

If Gabriel finds out who they are, things are going to go very badly for all of them.

Adrien can’t stand that idea, even if, at the moment, he can’t stand any of _them_ , either.

He turns the water on. He is wearing silk. He’s ruining silk. He’s ruined so much clothing since he returned to Paris. He’s ruined so many things. He ruins everything.

Why can’t he just be a normal man, with a normal life? 

Not twenty minutes ago, he couldn’t fathom a life, normal or otherwise, without Marinette in it.

Now...he can.

\--

Marinette texts him when she gets home. 

She is desperately worried about him. His father was so...so terrible, and...and he's stuck there, _alone_ with him...

...Adrien leaves her on read.

\--

When Nino finds her the next morning, she’s asleep in the bathtub, fully-clothed, with her phone stuck to her face.

Nino knows what finding Marinette asleep in the tub means. There are two possibilities: 1. She partied too hard, and thought she’d take a bath, and then forgot. (This occurs with enough frequency that it is an actual possibility.) 2. ...something bad happened. 

Having known her for so long, he knows the best way to determine which category he is observing is directly related to the state of her mascara and/or eyeliner. 

As gently and quietly as he can, he removes the phone and a chunk of hair from her face. He scans her cheeks. It is the worst case scenario: one pair of false eyelashes is stuck to the corner of her mouth. Leading down to its final resting place is a charcoal trail. This trail is mirrored on the other side of her nose.

Nino is tempted for just a moment to check her messages, but decides he’d better not.

He gently closes the bathroom door as he pulls out his own phone to ask Jules to come in early again.

There’s no fucking way he’s going to make her work the morning after Adrien Agreste has broken her heart.

\--

Alya knows something is up, because Nino is being extremely delicate with Marinette, and she hasn’t seen Marinette outside of the bakery in almost a week. Marinette doesn’t stick around for dinner; she doesn’t wake up until just before her shift, and when she _is_ working, she is constantly moving, never pausing for much more than a quick hello.

Alya worries that she might’ve done something wrong, that Marinette is upset with her, but Nino reassures her that definitely isn’t the case. She considers maybe stealing Marinette’s phone, but that’s so below her that the thought is only a fleeting one; it looks like she’s just going to have to wait for Marinette to spit it out.

Waiting for Marinette to come clean about something that is bothering her could mean months of worry, though; the Tournament of Self-Pity wasn’t simply a dumb, slightly sadistic game they’d invented for parties, after all.

It doesn’t take Alya long to put the pieces together, though.

She arrives at the office early on Saturday morning. She pours herself a coffee, sits down at her little desk, and switches on her computer. Emails checked, notes taken, and relevant files sorted away, she opens her (frankly derivative) document on the isolation of celebrity; she is a few sentences from completion when her phone rings.

She looks down at the number. It’s foreign: American, specifically, if her knowledge of country codes is accurate. Assuming it’s a spam risk, she sets it aside, trying to get her head back into writing mode.

The phone rings six more times, and after the sixth ring, a voicemail notification pops up. Alya squints at the screen, wondering what the hell is going on. Pressing play, she holds the phone up to her ear; she immediately wishes she hadn’t.

“HOW _DARE_ YOU LET ME GO TO VOICEMAIL,” Chloe Bourgeois screams so loudly that Alya goes “ACK!” and drops the thing.

“YOU ARE ALL GARBAGE. YOU’RE GARBAGE PEOPLE, AND THIS IS A GARBAGE CITY, AND I HATE YOU. I HATE EUROPE. I’M GOING TO TAKE YOU FOR EVERYTHING YOU OWN. NO-- _NO, GIVE THAT BACK--ADRIEN AGRESTE, I_ **_SWEAR_ **\--”

Click.

Alya stares at her blank screen, now laying on the floor, and hazards a look around the office.

Everyone is staring at her, because Chloe had been _that loud._

Then the phone starts ringing again.

“Um,” she says, “I’m just going to...take this.”

\--

“Hello?” Alya asks, once she’s safely on the balcony.

“FINALLY,” Chloe rages. “WHAT THE HELL, YOU DON’T IGNORE CALLS FROM ME, A _LYA._ ”

“Oh, you got my name right this time,” Alya says mildly, wondering what fresh horrors are going to be rained down upon her this dewy, bright summer morning.

“I’ve always known your name! I’m not STUPID!” Chloe snaps. “Listen--get OFF, Adrien--” Alya hears a ringing slap issuing from the other end, and a muffled “Ow! Why?!!” 

“Listen to me you stupid bitch,” Chloe hisses, “are you leaking stuff about us to the gossip rags or something? Is _that_ what’s got Adrien on his ‘trust no one’ bullshit again?”

“What?” Alya gasps. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb. Have you been saying shit about us?”

Alya laughs in her face. “Oh my god, _no._ Not only am I not that kind of journalist, I’m not a fucking _paparazzo,_ and I don’t have a deathwish.”

“Are you sure about that? Would you swear to that in court?”

“On my life, girl,” Alya says. “Why? What happened?”

“Well then. Your other _girl_ must’ve done something,” Chloe continues, and if Alya isn’t mistaken, this is followed by quite a loud door slam indeed. 

Alya blinks a few times, staring straight into the huge _Miraculous_ billboard decorating the rooftop across the street. It’s as though Chloe’s wrathful eyes are watching her from the heavens, waiting to smite at any moment.

“I don’t know, Chloe, I--” she pauses. “Wait. _Oh._ That must be why Marinette’s been so weird all week.” Alya’s heart breaks a little; that makes her pretty sad. “I’m pretty sure your _boy_ did something _,_ if I’m completely honest. Marinette is pretty good at not hurting people.”

“What? MY Adrien? He is a perfect angel and he’s never bothered anyone in his entire life, and I’ll have your entire family for slander if you try to argue.”

Alya doesn’t.

“So.” Chloe presses. “What are we going to do about this?”

“Problem is Chloe, I’m going to need you to explain exactly what ‘this’ is. Because _I don’t know._ ”

“Well _I_ don’t know either, understand?” Chloe spits, before she lets out a very long sigh. “I figured you’d have some magical grandmotherly wisdom or something, given that you wrote that RIDICULOUS piece about me.” A pause. “Thank you for that, by the way. It was...shockingly not terrible.”

Alya snorts, wondering whether or not she should be deeply insulted. “Problem is, Chloe, I might have incredible wisdom,” _and a capacity for bare-minimum-communication that YOU do NOT,_ “but that’s usually based on, like, knowing anything about...anything. I don’t know what happened with them, because Marinette hasn’t told me.” Alya wonders if this is a risk she should take. She decides to give Chloe the benefit of the doubt, which probably makes her an idiot, but this is _Marinette_ they’re talking about. “She’s pretty messed up about it, whatever it is.”

“Oh my god, they’re so DIFFICULT. He would choose someone DIFFICULT, wouldn’t he?” Chloe snarls, and Alya’s pretty sure she just threw her shoe at something. “He won’t tell me anything either. All I know is, they’d gone out to dinner, and _something_ happened with Xavi’s BORE of a wife, which NOBODY is being honest about, and now they aren’t speaking to each other anymore.”

“Xavi…? As in Xavier-Yves?” Alya blinks, and wheels begin to turn in her head. She _had_ seen something the other day in _OOPS!_ ; given that it was _OOPS!,_ though, she hadn’t spared it more than two seconds of thought.

“Yeah, I guess someone threw water at someone or something, and then his _father_ showed up, and don’t get me wrong, I hate the man, but he doesn’t do that unless something bad happened,” Chloe says coolly. “I mean, nobody _said_ it was her, and nobody _said_ Adrien was involved or anything, but, I mean, they wouldn’t, since Uncle Gabby is on a _rampage_ right now, and I know I would _certainly_ throw water at that woman if I was given the chance.”

“Uncle Gabby…” Alya has to recover from that title for a second; it’s just _weird._ “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’ Don’t you read your own waste of a magazine?” Chloe snaps. 

Alya begins to feel less amused, and more panicky. Who in their right mind would write something that set Gabriel Agreste on a rampage? He’s a huge no-no; reporters simply...don’t write about him, unless they’re trying to sell his suits.

“Chloe,” Alya says urgently, “what happened? Don’t yell at me, just tell me straight.”

Chloe harrumphs at that, and then sighs. “Oh, I don’t have time to explain it. Just read the blurb under that Rossi woman’s interview, you’ll get it; they went into all these details about Adrien’s...you know, _Chat thing,_ and problems he’s had with his dad, and--I’m just going to say, doing anything to bring Adrien’s mental health into question right now isn’t going to be a good thing, much less if it involves Uncle Gabby.” She sighs again, but this time it’s different; she sounds really sad. “And like, if you _do_ figure out what happened with Cow Girl and my Adrien, because I--I really don’t want that to be the case, okay? Can we--I don’t know. Can we fix it? _Please_ ? He’s fucking insufferable when he’s sad. He just...stares out the window, and reads bad fanfic _about himself_ all day, and it’s...it’s _weird._ ” Chloe actually has a wobble in her voice. “He’s _really_ sad, Alya. I don’t know what to _do._ ”

“I don’t know that this is ours to fix, Chloe…” Alya starts, but she trails off as something clicks in her mind.

God, if _Lila_ did something, this is going to be _bad_. 

“OF COURSE IT IS!” Chloe shouts. “WHAT KIND OF FRIEND ARE YOU? You seemed so _nice;_ you’re just going to--to--to let your stupid _bakery girl_ walk away from _Adrien Agreste?_ Are you INSANE? HE’S HUMAN CAVIAR, ALYA. SHE IS _BREAD._ ”

Alya will laugh at this declaration later, certainly, but right now she doesn’t find it particularly funny, and Chloe very obviously does not mean it to be.

“Okay, Chloe, I’ll do my best,” Alya says. “I promise, okay? Whatever this was though, Marinette _didn’t do it._ I think...I think I might know who did, though.”

“Good. Call me the MINUTE you find anything out. THE MINUTE,” Chloe snaps. Then she goes, in a much smaller voice, “And if you don’t, call me anyway. It’s not like I’m doing anything else in this toilet of a city.”

Then she hangs up.

Alya doesn’t have time to marvel at the fact that Chloe’s just invited her to _chat._

Alya has to find out what the hell Lila Rossi did, and why her editor allowed her to do it.

\--

Marinette brushes sweaty, floury hair from her forehead, grunting in frustration as she burns herself on the edge of the oven again. Crossing the kitchen to shove her hand under the sink, she sags under the weight of her exhaustion.

A ding comes from the bell on the counter, and she fights not to roll her eyes, because she’s literally a meter away from the register. 

“Be right with you,” she says, as cheerfully as she can manage, switching off the faucet. She pats her injured hand gently with a towel. “Hello, welcome.”

“Hi,” says her customer. “Can I get a pizza?”

“Oh, sorry,” she gives him something approximating a friendly grin. “We don’t make pizza. We’re a boulangerie-patisserie. If you’d like something savory, we have a lovely salmon cake.”

“Ah, right,” he says, roving his eyes over the pastry case. “How about stromboli?”

Marinette blinks at him, smile fixing itself awkwardly where it stretches over her teeth. “Ah, no, sorry, again, we do bread, and pastries. There’s a great Italian place across the street, though.”

“Ah, right,” the man nods, gaze settling on the macarons. “How about some chips, then?”

Marinette loses the will to live. “Right.” She drops the towel next to the sink, and calls, “Nino! Your customer.”

Nino breezes past her with a cheerful, “Hey, man, what can I get for you?”

Marinette upends a bucket and drops down onto it, burying her face in her hands. Sometimes...well. Sometimes her job can be a bit trying.

Retrieving her phone from her pocket, she flips through her messages, even though she knows she won’t find anything that she wants.

_please kitty are you okay?_

_Seen Saturday 1:27 AM_

She sighs, switching the thing off completely, slumping.

Standing again, brushing the flour from her hands, she returns to rolling her croissants, trying not to think about the 100 euro crumpled up on her nightstand.

\--

Alya stares at the YouTube page in horror.

 **_VOICI PRESENTS: A Conversation with Chloe and_ ** ~~**_Adrien_ **~~ **_Chat Noir_ **

_Voici’s Lila Rossi asks the question: When your reality is every other person’s fantasy, is there such a thing as reality at all?_

The interview is inoffensive enough, by itself, but combined with Lila’s commentary, which is an almost verbatim re-hashing of Adrien’s monologue at the Tournament of Pity, _including_ answers to questions NINO had asked, not to mention asides from what Alya figures are all sorts of other conversations he and Marinette have had over the last few weeks, it is...well, it’s deeply moving, but also _disgusting._

Alya immediately begins sending out really, REALLY angry texts.

\--

“Hey, Mari, I’m gonna pick up some sushi,” Nino says, just as she finishes drying the last tray. “You want anything?”

Marinette shrugs. “No, I think I’m just going to go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

Nino crosses his arms over his still-floury chest. “Marinette, you shouldn’t...like...cut us out of your life. We’re your friends, dude. We love you.”

“I know, Nino,” she says lamely. “I’m sorry, I just--”

The store bells jangle with such violence that they both jump. Two seconds later, Alya is standing in the mouth of the kitchen, hair so messy, face so contorted with rage she looks like a snarling lion.

“YOU TWO,” she roars. “WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING YOUR PHONES? I HAVE BEEN CALLING FOR _HOURS._ ”

Nino and Marinette blink at each other, at a complete loss.

“Um,” Marinette starts, “you could’ve...called the bakery line?”

“I _did,_ ” she snaps, “and _someone_ left it off the hook.” She growls at Nino, and Nino goggles at her.

“It wasn’t _me!_ ” he yells, and Marinette blushes. It was probably her; she’d placed an order that morning, while she was still half-asleep. She’s been so out of it lately, she wouldn’t put it past herself.

“Sorry, Alya,” Marinette says. “Are you okay?”

“Did either of you--and this is _really important--_ have either of you breathed a _word_ about our Pity Party the other night?” She says this with _mountains_ of accusation, and it’s so frightening that both Nino and Marinette squeak.

“No!” they both cry at the same time.

“Oh my god, babe, I would _never--_ ” Nino says. “Marinette, I swear, I wouldn’t ever, EVER do that.”

“Well, obviously _I_ haven’t,” Marinette says, offended by the very idea. “Why, did someone--”

“No. I’ve talked to Luka _and_ Kagami, and obviously Kagami hasn’t, because she’s a _lawyer_ and she isn’t a complete _idiot,_ and Luka hasn’t, because he’s Luka and he’s, you know, a saint--”

“-- _Kim!_ ” Nino and Marinette gasp at the same time, but Alya waves that off.

“Kim _IS_ stupid, and he is not a saint, but he was also really drunk, and he can’t remember half of the damn night,” Alya says. “He was too messed up about the whole boss’s wife situation; he’d forgotten you and Adrien were even a thing. He hasn’t said a word to anyone; he wouldn’t have anything to say even if someone asked. Which, you know, I did.”

...that...checks out, actually.

“Alya, what’s happening?” Marinette asks, and the tiniest glimmer of hope starts to sparkle in her chest.

“I’m pretty sure I know why Adrien isn’t talking to you, but I have to make sure,” Alya says, “and I can’t figure out how the _hell_ it happened. But I have my suspicions, and I’m _definitely_ going to find out.” She points at Marinette. “Call Adrien. I need to talk to him.”

“Alya, there’s no point,” Marinette says, shoulders sagging. “He won’t pick up.”

She knows. She’s tried, like, seven times.

...today.

“Fine,” Alya says. “Then _I’m_ calling Chloe.” She takes out her phone and punches her contacts, putting it on speaker. 

Marinette and Nino stare wonderingly as Chloe Bourgeois takes her call.

“Hi, Chlo,” she says. “Hey. I need you to get hold of Adrien’s phone. I think someone’s hacked it, and it definitely _wasn’t_ one of us.”

\--

Adrien is folding his socks, careful to make sure each one matches; that they aren’t creased. He tucks the little bundles into the top pocket of his suitcase, sighing.

God, he can’t get back to LA soon enough. He wants to leave this entire nightmare of a week behind him; he wishes he could just leave Paris behind him, period. 

_Maybe,_ he thinks, moving on to his shirts next, _I’ll move to Antarctica. I’ll build myself a cabin, and I’ll live with the penguins, and my best friend will be a seal named Steve and we’ll...catch fish and watch the stars pass us by. I’ll freeze to death eventually, and maybe a polar bear will find me and eat me._

He ruminates on that for a while before remembering that polar bears are in the arctic, not the antarctic, and he pauses in his packing to pour himself a glass of scotch.

Nathalie knocks. “Chloe's here,” she says.

“I’m _really_ not in the mood.”

“I understand that,” Nathalie says softly, frowning. “But I’d really prefer that she talked to _you_ first, rather than your father.”

“My father…?” Adrien blinks up at her owlishly. “Why would she talk to my fa--”

The door bursts open and Chloe shoves Nathalie out of the way. When his assistant recovers, she gives him quite a significant look indeed, waving at him to signal to just let this one go.

Adrien throws all of his scotch back.

“Chloe, look, I’m not going to call Cow--”

“Adrien, it wasn’t her, you angsty _brat,_ ” Chloe snaps. “Somebody’s tapped your phone. They’ve been listening in on you for days. God, you're such a fucking raincloud." He regards her without the slightest ounce of comprehension. Chloe stomps her feet. "Oh my god, Agreste, _it_ _wasn’t THEM._ ”

\--

Adrien waits, foot jiggling anxiously, as the tech guy switches off his laptop.

“Yep, you’ve got a tracking app on there, alright,” says the man Chloe had dragged in two seconds after her declaration--Adrien’s pretty sure she said his name was Max, but she'd gusted out so angrily afterwards that he can't be sure if he heard her right. “In fact, there are two. One of them has been on there for about a year, the other one was installed a few weeks ago. That second one is a doozy; definitely illegal. It has access to all of the recording software: the mic, the camera, and you don't have to be using anything for the app to control them; I think it might've had permissions for a few of your photo apps, too, maybe. Don’t worry now, though; I've removed all of it.”

Adrien's thoughts immediately flash to Marinette, and how desperately he'd tried to keep her out of the limelight. "Can it read my messages, or see my contacts?"

"Maybe. If you'd sent videos via any of your messaging apps, it could certainly see them. I don't think it had access to your saved photos, though."

“How could they put that on there without me knowing?” Adrien stares at him, feeling utterly sick. “Is there any way to find out who did this?”

“Nope. I could tell you where it was installed, of course. Problem is, it’s been jailbroken for ages; it would’ve been really simple to install that stuff if you knew where to find it,” Max shrugs, his epic silvery braids catching the light as he shakes his head. He’s definitely the coolest IT guy Adrien has ever seen; like someone out of the _Matrix._ He wonders where Chloe found him. 

Adrien sinks into his chair, and Nathalie actually steps over to rub his shoulders. He kind of wants to cry. Thank _God_ he’s leaving town in a few hours.

“M.--I’m sorry, what was your surname?”

“Just Max is fine,” Cool IT Guy says.

“Right. Max.” Adrien knows he’s twisting the knife here, of _course_ he does. That first tracker he is almost _sure_ was his father’s doing, and the jailbreaking too, probably; he can’t exactly blame him for it, what with the whole stranding himself in the desert episode all those months back, but that second one...if...if one of Marinette’s friends had…if _Marinette_ had done it, she’s amazing enough to be hiding all kinds of terrible things, but...he can't imagine...well, now he _can_ imagine, but he doesn't want to...but he has to know. He HAS to. “Max, listen. Do you have an exact timestamp for when that was installed?”

“I do,” Max nods. He opens the laptop again, pulling up a text file. He scrolls through it for a while, the light reflecting candy-apple red in his Tony Stark lenses. “Right. So. Timestamp is Saturday, 14th May at 10:38 a.m.”

Adrien’s heart begins to beat again.

“Sorry, say that one more time?”

“Saturday, 14th May at 10:38 a.m. I'll send you all this stuff via email, you know, in case you want to file a report. Which, honestly, you _should._ ”

If Adrien's eyes start to tear up, he isn’t ashamed. He doesn’t know Max, and this is still fucking awful, but it’s...but it’s better than he’d ever hoped for, given the circumstances.

He knows exactly where he was at 10:38 a.m. on Saturday, 14th May.

He was sitting in a chair next to Chloe. They had just wrapped up an interview with Lila Rossi. There was no way any of the bakery crew could have been anywhere near his phone, obviously, though plenty of the press were around at that time; he _had_ left his jacket unattended by his chair when he'd gone to get a bottle of water. 

Marinette had been nowhere near him. Marinette had been in the 21st Arrondissement, making bread with Nino, probably freaking out about what to wear to come to see him.

“It wasn’t them,” he says, and Max just looks kind of pleasantly confused, responding to Adrien’s watery smile with something a bit awkward, but polite. “Oh my god, it wasn’t them.”

“You’ll want to wipe the phone, of course, just for your own peace of mind,” Max says, beginning to pack up his stuff. “And you know. Don’t jailbreak anything in the future, unless you have a professional to guide you.” He winks, passing Nathalie his card.

“Thank you, Max,” Adrien says, eyes stinging, clutching his hands and shaking them hard. “Thank you so much. You have no idea...just. You have no idea how grateful I am for this.” 

“It’s my pleasure, M. Agreste,” Max smiles. “I hope I see you again soon--but not. You know. _Too_ soon.”

And with another handshake for Nathalie, he disappears into the hall.

Adrien stands up, staring at the stupid phone.

“I need to see Marinette,” he says. “I have to see her.”

“Adrien, you have that appointment with Antoine in ten minutes,” Nathalie says, not unkindly. 

“After, then,” he says, cursing poor Antoine for like the eightieth time this month. “I’ll call her after.”

\--

Chloe and Alya sit at the adjacent wall, ears pressed to plastic cups.

“Wire-tapping was a thing in the ‘90s, but I’d never thought I’d actually see it happening now,” Alya says. “So. Shall I do the honors of calling the cops on my co-workers, or should you?”

“Oh, I am _so_ excited,” Chloe snarls gleefully, looping her arm through Alya’s. “I haven’t sued anyone in months. It’s so much _fun._ ”

“I’m going to have to find a new job,” Alya muses, and she finds she isn’t even sad about it. "Shall we go out for drinks, Mlle. Bourgeois?"

"I think we shall, Mlle. Cesaire," Chloe says, slipping massive Gabriel sunglasses onto her face, pulling her giant fluffy white hood down over her head.

\--

Marinette is curled up in bed, lights switched off, the tendrils of sleep-aide fog unspooling through her brain. She is two seconds from drifting off when her phone rings.

She bats at it with her fingers; she smacks at it blindly.

When her blunt bakery nails finally find the answer button, she drags it up to her face, sighing.

“Mmmmffff. No.” is her greeting.

A low, sweet chuckle, and Marinette jumps up so quickly and with such force that she bashes her head on the ceiling.

“Hi, Bague-inette,” says her favorite person in the world. “I owe you an explanation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the moral of this chapter is anytime you have a problem just let alya deal with it; it'll be over in three paragraphs


	10. Chapter 10

Adrien shows up at her door dressed in paparazzi-dodging gear: a massive hoodie with a huge hood, sunglasses (at night, though they’re currently nestled in his hair rather than perched on his nose), black pegged joggers, and slip-on sneakers. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion bruises; his lips are chapped. He doesn’t look good.

“Hey,” he says softly, waiting to be invited in. She reaches tentatively to finger one of his clear drawstrings; she pulls her hand back at the last minute, not sure if she’s allowed to touch him or not.

He watches her hand withdraw, and his eyes fall to the hardwood at her bare feet.

She’s in her pyjamas--her ancient ones, the stained, fuzzy pink sweats and battered, speckled white spaghetti-strapped top, which is so old and over-washed that it’s gone a sort of muddled purple-grey. Her head still throbs a bit from its earlier contact with her ceiling.

Adrien looks like he’s been through the ringer, though, and any embarrassment she has about what she’s wearing is quickly replaced by overwhelming concern.

“Come in,” she says. “I’ll make you something warm to drink; there are macarons on the tab--”

“I can’t stay. I've got maybe five minutes,” he cuts her off, gentle as anything. “I’m. Well. I’m already running late; I had a meeting with Antoine, and it ran longer than--”

“Ah yes, the old Antoine excuse,” She smirks at him, but it’s without malice. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

“Marinette--”

“No no,” she laughs, smoothing her hands over the frayed, bakery-powdered tips of her messy braid as her anxiety takes hold of her. “I mean, you know, not that you’re _fake,_ just that--you. You don’t have to bother with excuses; not for me. I’m not, you know, important--”

“What? Of course you are; why is this a thing again--?”

“--and you don’t owe me anything, do you? How dare I ask you for anything; I mean, I hardly _know_ you, so--”

“Marinette, _please--_ ” 

She deadass runs away from him, toward the kitchen.

“--you know, who am I?” She’s still rambling, “I’m just some-- _pathetic_ idiot that thought, you know, just because I’d brought you _home_ a couple of times, like I have--like I have some right to expect the _barest_ communication, like that’s my _right_ \--”

She’s halfway to the sofa; she trips on the corner of the area rug, bashes her face into the edge of the coffee table, and jumps back to her feet, all in the span of half a second. Leaning her elbow against the back of the sofa, she executes her most dignified, unbothered pose.

It only takes a second to realize she should spit her braid out of her mouth.

“As I was saying,” she says, cool and collected, and then her brain stalls. “I have no idea what I was saying.”

Adrien has the most peculiar half-expression on his face, something between amusement and terror.

They both start to speak again at the same time, inhaling in sync, but Adrien puts his hands up to stop her.

“Stop,” he says.

Her mouth snaps shut.

“Listen, I--just...come with me,” he says.

Whatever she’d wanted to say dies on her lips.

“What?” she asks, rubbing at her forehead.

“Come...come with me?” he asks again, shrugging like he’s doing his best, but he knows he’s failing.

“Oh, did you want to…go...out somewhere?” she asks stupidly, dazed from days of sleeplessness, and the diphenhydramine she’d finally taken about half an hour prior, and probably head injury, tbh. “Um, I’m not really...dressed. And I have work...”

“No, I mean--” Adrien runs his hands through his hair with a huff. “Come with me, to LA. Come home with me for a bit. I mean, you don’t have to stay long; I know the bakery...needs you, I just--I thought you might...I don’t know. I thought I might...” He sags. “I thought I might make it all up to you.”

“Adrien, we can’t...you _know_ we can’t...build an entire relationship based on the premise that you have to make something up to me,” Marinette says slowly. “Because when you--when you phrase it that way, and I mean...after everything that happened--” (didn’t happen) “--this week, um. It kind of sounds like...like...that might be where this is heading. We’re not building something off of _guilt._ ”

There is an analog clock in the kitchen; it was her mother’s. It is gold and white and a little finch pops out on the hour, every hour. It isn’t far off popping now. It ticks so loudly in the quiet stretching between them that it actually hurts Marinette’s head.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

“Sorry, I…” Adrien draws in a breath. “I _want_ you to come with me.”

“No.” Marinette says simply, just as the little bird begins to sing.

Adrien’s eyes widen. “What?”

“No,” Marinette says again, before she bursts out a little laugh. “I can’t--I can’t just--are you serious?” Her laughter takes on a slightly hysterical edge. “ _No!_ Adrien, besides the fact that I--that I run a business, that literally sustains not only _me_ but my best friends, the last time I saw you,” she feels the weight of the week start to press down on her; the pain of staring at a blank screen for what felt like hours. “The last time I saw you, I was taking out your _trash._ ”

“Marinette, I--”

“Your father,” Marinette breathes, heart beginning to pound in her ears, pulse a roar. “Your father called me--called me _a dumpster…_ ”

“He didn’t call you a dumpster--”

“You just--you just assumed that I, that _we,_ that we had--had taken all of those horrible, horrible things about you, and just--just _sold_ them--to _Lila Rossi_ \--and you never questioned it for a _second--_ ”

“I did!”

Her voice is inching toward scream-territory; it’s her _mouse_ voice, that’s what her papa used to call it, when she was having a temper tantrum. “And...and...you never once, through all of that, stopped to ask me if I’d done it. You never even _asked,_ Adrien. You just…thought the worst of me; you just...disappeared.”

“Marinette, did you _watch_ that interview?” Adrien asks, eyes massive in his face. “There were things there that--that I have _only_ told you; no one else knows some of that stuff--well, okay, now _everyone_ does, but--”

“I didn’t _want_ to watch it,” Marinette says, pressing her palm to her aching head, shutting her eyes. “Of course I didn’t. Because I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, and--and why would I want to see something that hurt you? Why would I _want_ to watch that?”

Adrien stares at her. “Marinette,” he says again, crossing over to stand closer to her, but not within reach. “I couldn’t _stand_ it; you have to understand why I reacted the way I did--the number of times something like this has happened...and this one, this was the _worst,_ because all of the stuff in that video is TRUE. Of course I was terrified to talk to you; what if everything--all of this--had been a _lie_ ? What if _you_ were a lie?”

“All of ‘this?’ All of _what_ , Adrien?” Marinette lashes out now, tears starting to fill her eyes. Fuck, she’s so tired. She’s so, so, SO tired. “All of how you told me you loved me, and then paid me a hundred bucks to pretend I was ROOM SERVICE? And then how you ignored me for a _week_? You didn’t even--you didn’t even call to tell me how horrible I am, you just--you just made yourself go through all of that ALONE--”

Adrien stares at her, hands shaking.

“--and I was so _worried_ about you; I thought you were--I don’t even _know_ what I thought...”

She looks down at the coffee table, and she _knows_ she should be more understanding, but ever since Alya had asked her and Nino about whether or not they’d told anyone _anything_ about Adrien, she’s been thinking about this; wondering; torturing herself with the question.

“Adrien, did you even _know_ that interview was a thing before I met your dad?” she asks softly. “Or did that come afterwards?”

Adrien swallows hard enough that his Adam’s apple makes his hoodie ties bounce. It is obvious that he knows exactly where she’s going with that. All of the light leaves his eyes; his face droops into something so pathetic and sad that if he was in his Chat transformation, his ears would be flat against his hair.

He doesn’t have to answer for her to know the truth.

“It’s kind of confusing, see, because I understand the being angry about the interview stuff,” she goes on. “But I don’t...understand... _why..._ you...I mean, I get secrecy, but to be that-- _that_ ashamed of me, and to think--”

“No, Marinette, I’m _not--_ ”

“Let me talk, Adrien!” she squeaks. “You KNOW how hard it is for me to say--to say _anything!_ ”

His mouth snaps shut.

“I…” she starts to sniffle, “...have wanted to work...for the Gabriel brand...since I was thirteen years old,” she says, voice coming thick now, “and I finally got to meet you, and I _loved_ you, and--and you were so _ashamed_ to introduce me to your dad that you--let him ask me...to take out your dirty laundry...and your _garbage..._ and you _paid me to leave._ ”

“No! Oh, hell,” Adrien says, and it’s the closest he’s gotten to yelling since she met him. “ _No!_ That wasn’t it at all! Have you completely forgotten what happened _half an hour_ before we were back at the hotel? Do you have _any idea_ what I was thinking?!!”

“How am I supposed to know that?!!” She can’t help herself. She laugh-cries, tears splashing as she splits into a huge wet sneering smile. “Of course I don’t, because you _pushed me off of you,_ and have ignored me for a _week._ ”

“Marinette, you’d just thrown water at one of the wealthiest women in Paris,” Adrien says desperately, taking half a step closer. “You almost smashed Pierre Gagnon’s face into a pile of garlic shrimp. I went up to that room to make sure there weren’t, like, boxers hanging from my _lampshade,_ and I walk in, and instead I find my _father--_ who is--he--you _don’t want to know him,_ by the way, I’m not exaggerating, he is...you _don’t,_ Marinette, he shouldn’t be your hero; he should be NO ONE’s hero--the first thing he says to me is,” he puts on a weird, villainous, Hawkmoth-y voice that would be ridiculous in any other context, “‘ _Hellloooooo, ADRI-EN, Veronique DuPont-Roth texted to say you were involved in an incident._ ’ Do you know what he would’ve done to you if he thought--if he _knew--_ you’d gotten me involved in a _bar fight_?!!”

“That wasn’t _remotely_ a bar fight!”

“It might as well have been! Do the Agrestes look like the kind of people that walk up to _anyone_ and throw water in their faces?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he realizes immediately that he shouldn’t have steered the conversation in this direction.

Marinette doesn’t look rambly-panicked now. She’s _angry._

“I never asked you to join in,” she says, cold as ice. “Did I? Ex- _cuse_ me for being ANGRY that someone was BLATANTLY SLANDERING your ENTIRE FAMILY. I guess it’s just that PEASANT BLOOD of mine making me act ALL CRAZY.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!”

“Well, that’s how all of this has made me feel,” Marinette snaps, tears beginning to ooze slowly out of her sleep-heavy eyes. “I’m really sorry someone tapped your phone and did all of those _horrible_ things to you, but it wasn’t _ME._ I’m SORRY I’m so embarrassing to be around. I’m sorry I--I have to be some, some _horrible_ secret--”

“Marinette, I didn’t pay you to leave _me,_ ” he pleads, and he actually sits straight on top of the coffee table to clutch her hands to his heart. “I paid you to get you away from _him._ ” He stares at her with those huge, clear green eyes, all bloodshot and over-shiny. “I’m _sorry,_ okay? If it had been literally anyone else, I would’ve done things differently. But it was _him_ , and you _don’t know him._ I was SCARED for you, and then--” He sucks in a shaking, coarse breath. “And then I was really scared for myself.”

She goes to say something else about just what she thinks of that, how worried she’s been about him, and upset, and so _heartbroken_ by what Lila did to him, for the full two hours that she’s actually known about it, but...looking at him like this now, with his heart beating under her hands as his eyes tremble up at her, she can’t. She can’t think of anything but how much she adores him, how much she’s missed him, and how badly she’d wished across the span of all of those small, terrible days that they’d spent apart, that he would answer his damned phone.

She all but throws herself into his arms, upending the coffee table, sending them both careening into the floor.  
“We are so stupid,” Marinette moans, burying her face in his hoodie. He instantly does the same with her hair. “Oh my god, why are we so stupid?”

“Because this situation is stupid,” Adrien mutters back, voice muffled, tugging her in to plaster her to his body. “I’m sorry, Marinette.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand,” she says back. “But Adrien, don’t you ever, _ever_ disappear on me like that again,” Marinette says into his neck. “ _Please._ ”

“Don’t strand me in an In & Out parking lot in the middle of the Mojave desert.”

“What?!! I don’t even know what that _means. That wasn’t_ **_me._ **”

“I was afraid he was going to send you to a McDonald’s in Iowa.”

“ _Seriously,_ Adrien, that’s such a life-defining thing to you, but there are far worse things. Think of all the employee-discount McNuggets I could bring home to you. Also, what even is Iowa? You know he couldn’t do that; I don’t even have American citizenship.”

They laugh at this, until they don’t anymore.

Adrien’s hands are in her hair; their slowly bruising legs are stretched and tangled wildly over the arch of overturned table-top. Marinette realizes, but without comprehension, that someone had left a glass of orange juice out; upended, it’s spilled contents are now soaking into Adrien’s hoodie.

“I thought you were supposed to be here for another month,” she says softly, finally giving in to the urge to tug at his drawstrings.

“I was,” he says. “But I…I decided to leave.”

“No, I get it,” she murmurs. 

He sounds like he’s trying to respond, but nothing comes out.

She sighs. 

So. This is it. She’s had him back for all of ten minutes, and this is...

…it.

“We can Skype, or whatever,” she says softly. “Don’t think an ocean is going to keep me from sending you stupid cat memes.”

“Visit me,” he begs quietly. “You know, take a week.”

She pets his cheek, her favorite spot. “I have responsibilities, Kitty. I can’t drop everything and leave with you. Things--real life doesn’t work like that.”

His fingers dig hard into the fabric of her pyjamas, pulling her little shirt taut around her ribs.

“What a terrible time to start worrying about real life,” he says, voice impossibly small.

“I’ve never stopped, mon tresor.” She ghosts lips over his pulse. “This has _always_ been real life.”

“I…” he murmurs, “am going to be _so annoying_ on Facebook Messenger. Seriously, I’m going to spam you all day. Constant bread puns.”

“You promise?” she asks.

“I promise,” he replies. “You’ll hate me by the time I get to see you again.”

“Adrien, I have spent a week crying over you because you _didn’t_ send me bread puns.”

She hears his god-damned phone ringing in his pocket, the vibration of it tickling her thigh.

“Is that Nathalie?” she asks softly.

He swallows, nodding. “Five minutes go so fast,” he says, and it’s like he’s admitting something horrible; something tragic.

She kisses his cheek, softly, squeezing him tight.

\--

“Don’t forget me, okay?” he asks quietly, standing in the bakery’s little doorway.

It’s storming again. Of course it fucking is. There’s probably an FX crew on the roof making it happen.

“Adrien Agreste,” she sighs, “you’d better not kiss me goodbye like they do in the old movies.”

That is precisely what he does, bending her back into an arch while she clings to his neck for dear life.

She swears she can hear a cinematic orchestra swelling in the background when he climbs into the car.

Half a block away, he sticks his top half out of the window to wave at her. He’s smile-crying. His hair is caught in the wind as water pelts his face.

Marinette waves back, weakly.

The orchestra fades; the city returns around her.

She is, once again, just a bakery girl, standing barefoot in the street, clothes soaking through, because she doesn’t have sense enough to take shelter from the rain.

\--

The first time Adrien texts her a day and a half later, it’s a photograph of Plagg.

He’s eating cheese.

 _THIEF!_ is the caption.

Marinette weeps into the meringue, ruining the entire batch.

\--

On her birthday, a huge package arrives at her door. The courier sags under its mass, knees knocking. She hurries to take it from him, whisking it past the throngs of people stuck in line, forming the morning rush. Nino laughs at her, and deftly takes over the register. His flow gets better and better every day; he’s really getting the hang of the whole bakery thing.

She runs upstairs and dumps the cumbersome package in the middle of the sitting room, wondering what the heck her parents have splurged on this time. She’s about to race back downstairs to return to Nino when she notices the massive customs label on the side of the box.

The sender is simply listed as Chat. The return address is a PO box in Malibu.

Heart racing, bakery forgotten, she tears through the paper and cardboard, poor, abused fingernails screaming in protest.

It isn’t a box--it’s a _trunk._ An honest-to-god trunk.

When she opens it, it is filled with dresses, in gold and red and pink and ocean blue, _six_ of them, gowns and shifts and bandeau-collars and ornate beading and silk and angora and...

 _We’ve had these in storage for years,_ the little note, printed from what looks like a messenger app, reads. _You shouldn’t have to alter them much; I’m pretty good at guessing measurements, just wanted to prove I haven’t forgotten yours😽_ _Happy Birthday, my lady. Yours, Kitty_

She stares in amazement, gingerly pulling the topmost piece out with the pads of her fingers.

They are all Gabriel originals, every single one of them; an assortment of pieces from over the last ten years. 

Not a month ago, the tulip-pink fanback had been on a runway in Milan.

The box is _easily_ worth 20,000 euro. If she sold these, she could _actually_ afford a down-payment on a house. She could buy a _car._ She could go back to school, or--

Marinette screams, and immediately calls Adrien to shout at him.

She reaches his voicemail.

The message she leaves is completely incoherent.

Six hours later he responds with, _ah yeah sorry I couldn’t get you something nicer, hope u dont mind xx_

She keymashes, _ITS TOO MUCH ADRIEN!!!!!!!!!!! 🤯 🤯 🤯 🤯 🤯 🤯 🤯 🤯_

His response is, _try on the pink one, send me a photo xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

\--

She does him one better.

She sets her phone in a cradle on her nightstand, setting the camera’s timer, and she records herself pinning up her hair, rolling his favorite stockings on (even though they definitely clash with the dress), dusting her cheekbones with bronzer. She slips the dress on last, and in a haze of nervousness, asks him to help her with the zipper. She feels a little silly; she can’t bring herself to actually _watch_ the video before or after she’s sent it, but...well.

His response is lightning fast.

He pretends to faint, but right at the end, his anchoring hand misses the edge of his mattress, and he falls flat on the floor with a soft _oof_. 

He chooses to send this, unedited, because, as he explains, it’s a pretty accurate summation of how she makes him feel. 

He spends the next three hours sending her intermittent texts, describing an imaginary date they’re going on that night, complete with gondolas and an opera singer named Andrea who makes Adrien deeply jealous, and rose petals on satin sheets, and birds singing, and some kind of pink Bugatti maybe? And also she’s secretly some kind of international woman of mystery? And he’s the target she didn’t mean to fall in love with?

She’s not quite sure where he’s going with that last part, but she _definitely_ likes the bit with the sheets.

Adrien is _very_ good at writing about sheets.

\--

Sometimes, in those early weeks, when she’s on the boat with Luka and Kagami, or she’s curled up watching a movie with Nino and Alya, she feels desperately alone; like she’d sell her organs on the dark web just to be able to run away to LA.

A kidney, she thinks, would cover the cost for one of Adrien’s full-body hugs.

\-- 

Weeks come and go, and summer, with its sticky heat and oppressive dream-like weight, persists long into September. Every morning she wakes up to little messages, and photos, and video clips; palm trees and freeways so crowded it’s like staring into a sea of hazy red fairy lights, or videos of kids from the hospitals he visits as Chat every few weeks. There are videos of Plagg sleeping in his lap, a photo of Adrien asleep on top of a massive marble-topped kitchen island with zero explanation (Nathalie has taken this one), scenes of a forest in Canada where he’s doing a spread for Jean-Paul Gaultier, and a bar in Tokyo, where he’s surrounded by cute girls in black and polka-dotted bodysuits.

“ _Bonjour, Bague-inette!_ ” they all say in unison, clustering around Adrien, waving, even though they can’t have any idea who they’re saying hello to.

He kisses the screen at the end of that one.

He calls her sometimes, when it’s very early (or very late) in Southern California, and he gives her virtual tours of his house, pointing out little things here and there that are only interesting because he presents them that way: his favorite kitchen drawer, inexplicably filled with take-away sauce packets; a bowl of glittery rubber bands in his study; his favorite key on the piano, that he’d scrawled an _A_ into when he was five (he was put on restriction for that one); the light switch in his pool room that is shaped like a donkey _for no reason;_ a large, glittering ceramic figure of a potato dressed as Batman that was given to him as a Christmas gift by an exceptionally eccentric co-star. They argue the ins and outs of identity; they rage at how pretentious the upcoming season’s design sensibilities are. Sometimes they exchange details of their breakfasts; sometimes, content to sit in silence together with their cameras running as she gets ready for bed and he prepares for work, Marinette falls asleep with her cheek pressed to the screen.

Just as Autumn begins, he Facetimes her; she’s in the middle of boxing up a huge catering order when she looks down at her phone to find Tom Ford-- _the_ Tom Ford--smiling at her.

“Hello Marinette!” he says cheerfully. “I _love_ that famed feathered bowler; Adrien sent me photos last night. Great work! Do you still do much designing?”

Marinette sticks her hand into the oven while they have a tiny little chat, just a five-minute thing that doesn’t feel real even to her; she only realizes she’s burnt herself badly enough to require a trip to the hospital when Nino walks in, grabs her arm, and goes, “MARINETTE! HOLY SHIT!”

Two days later, while she’s laid up on the sofa with her paw in a giant roll of gauze (which she has to change three times a day), Adrien writes to her, “tahe nameing ofg cats ais a diggsulct DIG DIFFICULT matter! itisnt jsut one of yuwr holiday GAMES! oyu may athnik aT frist inm’ as MAD ASA HATteewr HATTER when i tell you, a cTa must hvave 3 DiFERENTA names.”

She stares at the gibberish before laughing. He’s never drunk texted her before, but there’s a first time for everything, after all.

Three seconds later, he calls her.

“Marinette,” he says, and he’s _bawling his eyes out,_ “I really love cats, okay? I love them so much. And bugs. And birds! I just love the whole world! Why can’t we all be birds?!! All I want to do is _migrate!_ ”

“Ah, yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” she listens to him crash into something, wincing at the subsequent shattering that was almost definitely some kind of antique. “Are you okay? Are you alone?”

“I’m _CLAWSOME_ , now that _you’re_ here, My Marinette.”

She giggles at him. “Drink some water, darling.”

“Oh, I _love_ water! You’re so smart, Mari. You’re the brains of the operation,” he says gustily. “ANYWAY. Didn’t you read my poem? Isn’t T.S. Eliot a _genius_ ? I’ve made a breakthrough. A bread-through? A _pain..._ no. Hmm.”

“He is amazing, Adrien,” she says, glancing at her clock. It’s 3 a.m. in Los Angeles. “Why are you still up? What’ve you been doing? You know, besides drinking.”

“Oh, you know, renegotiating contracts, trying to save Chloe from throwing herself off balconies, NOT eating brioche,” he says, words surprisingly slur-free for someone who is obviously six or SEVEN sheets to the wind; forget the usual three. “Mari, I want to be with _you_ ,” he declares. “I have made a mistake, and now I’m here, and you need to know--I _must_ tell you, that I don’t _want_ to have three names.”

“Three names? What are you talking about?” she laughs.

“The _poooooooooooooooeeemmm,_ Bague-a-boo,” she can _hear_ his eyes rolling, that’s how dedicated he is to this bit of dialogue. “I want one name, and it’s going to be Adrien Dupain-Cheng, because we are going to get _married,_ and we are going to spend every single night on the roof with a charcuterie board and also with Emma, and her brothers; she will be named for my mom, of course. Sorry that I’ve already decided on our daughter’s name; is that okay? Oh, I’m so _selfish._ ” He pauses, looking positively heartbroken, before he distracts himself again. “Oh, and our hamster. No. YES. At _least_ one hamster, and Plagg, and your...pet...beetle...Tikki, because you are my everyday Ladybug. How do you feel about pet beetles, generally?”

Marinette’s eyes widen in shock. When had she mentioned that fantasy? _Had_ she? She can’t remember doing that, had she--?

“Adrien Dupain-Cheng is still three names,” is what her dumb, stupid mouth replies with.

“I would pun at you for your insolence, but I am CATastrophically inbedriated,” he declares.

“Yes, yes, very good.”

“No, listen; it’s the _poem--_ oh, I said _CAT_ astrophically. I did it!” He claps for himself. "PUNS!"

“You did!” Marinette claps back.

And then he starts to read:

_“The naming of cats is a difficult matter:_

_it isn’t just one of your holiday games._

_You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter_

_When I tell you a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES:”_

He pauses, takes a breath, and goes, “I’m gonna skip the stuff in the middle; it’s too long.”

“Wait, isn’t this--isn’t this from that musical? The _musical_ ‘Cats?’ Like the scary one with the weird CG?”

“NO, it’s POETRY; let me give you the gift of ART.” He clears his throat, and continues, 

“ _...I tell you,_ my lady, _a cat needs a name that's particular,_

_A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,_

_Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,_

_Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?”_

He pauses again, and goes, “Bla bla bla, whatever-whatever, etc. etc., and _then…_

_...above and beyond there's still one name left over,_

_And that is the name that you never will guess;_

_The name that no human research can discover--_

_But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.”_

He stops again. “You know, except to you. YOU can know my secret name.” He clears his throat. “ANYWAY.”

_“When you notice a cat in profound meditation,_

_The reason, I tell you, is always the same:_

_His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation_

_Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:_

_His ineffable effable_

_Effanineffable_

_Deep and inscrutable singular Name.”_

Marinette claps again, even though half of that was completely lost on her, because though she’s been brushing up on her English since Grasspocalypse, she still isn’t great with anything particularly flowery.

“Okay, kitty,” she laughs. “What are you getting at? This is a whole lotta metaphor for a very short amount of drunk Facetime.”

“It means I miss being with you, and I miss being _myself!_ ” he ends dramatically, before he drops his phone, and the connection cuts out.

\--

The following evening he sends a very embarrassed text: “Marinette, I’m really sorry about anything I did or didn’t say, sing, or dance.”

She replies back with a very hearty voice message: “[ _MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMOOOOOOORRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY, ALL ALOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE IN THE MOONLIGHT…”_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-L6rEm0rnY)

She’s pretty shocked that less than five minutes later, he writes back, “Mari I know you were playing around, but seriously, sing to me forever.”

...and that’s how she comes to learn _Un Petit Chat sur Un Toit,_ Adrien’s favorite song: the lullaby his maman wrote for him when he was a tiny little baby.

It’s really no wonder he has difficulty separating himself from Chat Noir.

To the people that matter, he’s been a cat all his life.

\--

There are bad days, and there are good ones; Alya and Chloe’s absolute vendetta against _Voici_ isn’t going particularly well, because there is zero proof any of the magazine’s staff were involved in any kind of phone hacking. Lila even has emails showing that the transcripts from Adrien’s phone were sent to her from another source; although it is something of a legal offense to use what are very obviously recordings without permission, Lila herself had no proof that Adrien had not willingly provided them, which is completely baffling. Adrien has apparently given enough evidence showing he didn’t own the address the emails were sent from, but that _still_ doesn’t prove Lila had any knowledge of doing anything wrong in the first place.

From what Alya has said about it, when questioned, Lila had insisted the recordings were supplied to her from a Parisian email address that seemed perfectly legitimate; an address registered to someone with the google handle aagreste1776. She’d assumed it was Adrien himself who was sharing the recordings in the first place. She’d been so surprised, of course, when Adrien had offered them to her, rather than agreeing to an in-depth interview, but she simply assumed he was choosing a “less painful way” to share information with her. She’d requested meetings with him _so_ many times, after all, and he’d always been _so nice_ to her.

Marinette has asked Adrien about all of it, about what his lawyers have said to him; apparently their capabilities are limited, given that they can’t prove anything more concrete without a formal police investigation, and Adrien had left so quickly after Max had discovered the tracking apps in the first place, it’s all a bit of a mess now, especially given that Adrien technically lives in another country whose digital privacy laws are different. Adrien is tempted to just leave it alone, but Marinette hates that idea. After all, Lila--or whoever it is that had perpetuated the whole thing--had cost her weeks of time she would’ve had together with him. 

Chloe seems to be texting Alya nearly as often as Marinette is Adrien. They spend half the time arguing about nothing; one evening after Marinette had closed up shop, she came upstairs to find Alya stalking around the kitchen yelling via speakerphone at Chloe about sequins, while Nino watched from the couch. He was eating popcorn and _grinning._

“That woman is nuts,” he’d said softly, attention stolen by the exchange, as Marinette plopped down beside him.

“SHUT UP NINO,” Chloe and Alya had shouted, in perfect sync, with the lag and all.

\--

It doesn’t hit Adrien just how lonely he is until October comes, and he’s standing in the shallow end of a pool at Harry Styles’s house, and someone hits him straight in the face with a giant inflatable hot dog. The girl who’d done it is younger, someone nice from the video shoot they’d just done; she’s an aspiring model, and though she’s been very friendly--they all had; this crew is a very lovely crew to work with, hence why he’s in the pool instead of hiding in the bathroom--he realizes abruptly that he’s tired of American English; he’s tired of chlorine and palm-trees and sleek modern architecture and “I have my surgeon on speed-dial” and cuts and the 405 at 6:12 p.m., and while no, nobody’s hacked his phone here, they aren’t Marinette.

Nobody here is Marinette.

He wants to be with Marinette.

Dragging himself out of the water, he bids an early goodbye to everyone, and slips Harry his cheese guy’s card, and basically...well. Basically, he runs away. 

When he gets home, he flops himself onto a lawn chair. It’s 3 a.m. in Paris. His phone has been silent for ages. Opening his Facebook messenger, he checks Marinette’s recent activity; it’s been nearly four hours since she was last active.

No, he can’t send her a message now. She’ll be asleep, and he knows she’s got an hour or two at most before she has to be awake again. 

He opens Instagram instead, scouring the search function for some dumb bread memes. Having racked up a decent selection, he goes to pocket the phone.

Just as he slips it into his pocket, though, it chimes.

He smiles down at his screen, heart filled to bursting.

It takes him ten whole seconds to realize he is sniffling at a cat made out of bread.

He needs to go home. _Home-_ home.

\--  
  
(He can't of course.   
  
Not yet.  
  
This isn't a movie, after all.)

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full "CATS" Poem: https://poets.org/poem/naming-cats
> 
> and heck yeah adrien would be buddies with harry styles ok don't even begin to argue with me re: this fact


	11. Chapter 11

Autumn in Paris is changeable: the day might be cold in the morning and balmy in the afternoon; the sky might be heavy with rain or bright enough to pinken cheeks. The city fades from green to gold, fallen leaves collecting in the gutters; root vegetables pile high on street-market tables, and Marinette begins her days peeling and slicing apples. The bakery takes on the heavy scent of cinnamon. 

Alya takes a job at _Paris Today._ The hours are long, and she misses the luxury and glamor of _Voici,_ but the pay is better and the work is more satisfying. 

November begins with something akin to a gasp. 

All Saints’ Break brings throngs of students. _Le Boulangerie-Pattisserie_ is suddenly overwhelmed with business; it’s very nearly time to hire seasonal help.

Kim is the obvious choice, and his presence brightens Nino up so much that the kitchen becomes a lively, silly arena. If the guys waste a little too much flour goofing off, Marinette doesn’t hold it against them (if anything, she encourages it).

Marinette wakes every morning to increasingly tender text messages from Adrien; she wonders if something is wrong, but Adrien’s only response is this: 

_when i’m talking to you princess everything is right <3 _

\--

Adrien is casually flicking through airline prices on Google Flights, checking the dates against his schedule. He’s pretty clear the week before Christmas; surely he can spare a few days, maybe give up his shoot for _Vanity Fair…_

He is preparing to call Nathalie to ask her about maybe trying to plan something, when his phone rings instead. The number is French; he doesn’t recognize it. 

He answers, hoping rather ridiculously that maybe it’s Marinette, even though he has all of Marinette’s numbers saved.

“Hello?” he asks, closing his browser window.

“Hello! Am I speaking with Adrien?”

“Speaking,” he says jovially. He hadn’t _really_ expected it to be Marinette, after all.

“I hope you don’t mind me calling on your private line, but I thought it might be best to share this with you before I...share it with anyone else,” says the young man on the other end of the line, high voice polite, but strained. 

Adrien’s hackles raise. “Sorry, who am I speaking with?”

“Oh, no, I apologize--this is Max Kante. Chloe Bourgeois asked me to help you with your hacking situation a few months back.”

Adrien swallows. “Oh, yes, right. Hello Max. Sorry I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“Ah, well, vocal integrity degenerates rapidly over long distances, even over strong connections using state-of-the-art devices, and as we are hardly acquaintances, I wouldn’t expect you to anyway,” Max clears his throat. “So, I was looking over some of the logs from our last meeting, and I found something...a bit disheartening. Do you have some time to talk?”

Adrien sets his glass back down, heaving a sigh. “Of course, Max. Please. Go on.”

\--

The conversation is as brief as it is devastating.

When Adrien hangs up, he calls Nathalie.

“Cancel everything,” he says, foregoing any kind of greeting. “Anything I have coming up in the next six months. Cancel it. If I have contracts, cancel them. All of it. Refer them to our lawyers if they give you any problems. Everything. Sell my stocks; put the house up for sale...I don’t care what you do with the house, honestly. Close all of the accounts except for the Chase card.”

“What…? Adrien, what’s the matter?” Nathalie balks. 

Adrien grinds his teeth together with such force that his left ear pops. “Cancel. Everything. I’m leaving.”

“Adrien, you _can’t_ \--”

“Just do it. I’m booking a flight for the eighth. Get everything done by then.”

\--

Nathalie does.

\--

November seventh comes; the holiday break has ended, and the retail Christmas season is beginning. They have quite a large shipment coming in for the holiday-themed pastries; Marinette sighs, looking down at her nice, clean fingers, knowing that, starting tomorrow, her nails will be stained green and red until New Years.

She is setting Juleka’s madeleines out when her door bells chime, and she straightens.

“Oh, I’m very sorry the doors were unlocked; we’ll be open in an--an...hour...”

The words die on her lips.

Gabriel Agreste is standing in her doorway, enveloped in a tight black trenchcoat, throat circled by a silvery purple scarf, watching her with eyes chillier than the winter wind that has only made its first appearance two mornings ago.

“I apologize,” he says. “I won’t be available in an hour. Would you make an exception for me?”

Marinette drops her cookies, dusting off her hands, acutely aware of the batter drying on her left cheek.

“Of course,” she says softly.

He follows her progress around the counter and pastry case silently, tracking every flutter of her hand and jerk of her limbs.

“What would you like, M. Agreste?” she asks, and is shocked at how steady her voice is, given how hard the rest of her is shaking.

“I’d like to know how you found the piece from last May,” he says, tone even, the highest point of his left cheek twitching just slightly. "I'd like to know how you found _all_ of the pieces Adrien gave to you, actually. Without my permission, of course."

All of her vital organs shut down, including her brain.

“The--sorry?” she asks after a moment or two, though she barely registers asking.

“You’re easily twenty centimetres too short for the intended silhouettes,” he says, as though he’s commenting on particularly unremarkable weather, “but Adrien has always had a knack for picking complimentary shades. I can see why he chose them for you.”

“I-- _oh,_ ” Marinette’s consciousness catches up with the present. “The dresses.”

He hums.

“I’ll return them all to you,” she blurts out, blood turned Costa-cold and slushy, breath starting to come too fast now, hyperventilation imminent. “I can’t _believe_ Adrien did that; I don’t de--”

“You don’t like them?” Gabriel’s eyebrows shoot all the way up his forehead, and Marinette thinks, wonderingly, that she had no idea human eyebrows could reach such heights. She wonders, in a vaguely dissociated way, if Adrien’s insane muscle control comes from Gabriel’s side of the family.

“No, I _love_ them. I have never--I have _never_ received anything so wonderful in my life. I cried over them. Buckets. Streams. Rivers.” She knocks over the napkin container. Why is her elbow near the napkin container? Useless elbow. “I--your gowns are the loveliest; like something--like something out of a fairytale.”

“You’re rambling,” Gabriel is flat now, face going a bit stony. “Of course they are. You don’t intend to sell them, do you? I’d advise against that.”

“Of _course_ not,” she gasps, hands flying to cover her mouth. “I would never. _Ever._ I--the construction alone; I stared at the embroidery on the gold shift for hours. It’s Ukrainian, isn’t it? ”

“Ah, yes,” Gabriel hums, eyes dropping to the croissants. His long, leather-gloved fingers flex on the edge of the bakery case. “We commissioned Svetlana Ponomarenko for that piece. Do you have an interest in embroidery, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng?”

“I do,” Marinette nods hastily. “Menswear was my concentration in university, but--” She can’t believe she’s saying this to _Gabriel Agreste_ “--but I’ve always loved, you know, decorative application. It fascinates me.”

He tilts his head at her, eyes narrowing. “So I presume you decorated these?” He points to a row of sugar cookies, featuring autumnal scenes in royal icing. She’d been sleepless the night before, and Adrien had been online, so she stayed up doodling on the cookies while he told her a story about the time “Holly” made the mistake of asking Chloe on a date when they’d first met. 

“How can you tell?”

“The detail,” he says simply. “I’d like one of these, if you don’t mind, and the chocolate brioche. Adrien _ruined_ his diet for these; I’d like to know what all the fuss is about.”

Marinette apologizes to him profusely, hiding the redness of her face as she ducks into the case to fetch his order.

“Tell me,” he says as she slips his goods into tiny white boxes, “why you chose this... _profession,_ ” he sniffs a bit derisively, “over design.”

Marinette feels the frown on her face a bit too late to keep it from appearing. “This bakery has been in my family for four generations,” she says, probably too cool to be polite, but she doesn’t appreciate his tone. “When my parents retired, I wasn’t ready to give it up.”

“But wouldn’t you rather do something you actually care about?” he says, and it’s so rude she actually gawks at him.

“Monsieur, with all due respect,” she says, sliding his boxes across the counter with a little too much force; he has to catch them to keep them from falling to the floor, “I care _very_ much. I love my parents--I love my family--and this bakery is part of my family. Please don’t insult us.”

Gabriel’s eyes widen ever so slightly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “So family is important to you.”

“Of course it is,” she says coolly. “If I love something, I don’t do it halfway.”

She’s not sure where the hell she’s drummed up the nerve to say something so blunt and, frankly, _none of Gabriel’s damned business,_ but she’s starting to see why Adrien wasn’t keen on introducing him to her. 

He’s...not pleasant.

“Do you consider Adrien family?” he says, emotionless.

Marinette swallows. It isn’t a threat. She’s not sure what he’s getting at. “All of my friends are family.”

Something has softened in his demeanor though--it isn’t his gaze; nothing in his expression, no, but there’s something in the set of his wide shoulders and the way he cradles his pastry boxes that makes him seem less threatening, and more...well...unapproachably awkward, for want of a better word.

“You remind me somewhat of myself,” he says, and whatever she’d been expecting, _that_ hadn’t been it. “You’re wasted here.”

“Thank you, but I’m really _not,_ ” she says tersely, and it isn’t at all polite.

He stands there staring at her for a few moments more, before tucking his boxes into the large black leather tote he has hanging from his shoulder. 

“Take care of Adrien, won’t you?” he says. His voice is soft now.

It shocks her. She didn’t know it did that.

“I...what?” she blinks at him. “I mean. Alright. Of course.”

Then he disappears into the chilly November air, coat swishing around his ankles like a vampire’s cape.

\--

Marinette goes to text Adrien to freak out at him about his father’s cryptic visit--she’s really worried she’s going to get sued for the dresses, or...or something; she can’t think of anything else he could possibly sue her for--but Adrien never writes back.

She is overcome with dread.

That night, when she calls him, a patient American voice informs her that his number is no longer in service.

\--

Marinette spends a day in absolute woe and panic; she burns the bread and drops the macarons and steps on Kim twice. She forgets her hat again. She spills coffee on a customer and she looks so messed up and horrible that the customer apologizes to _her._ Nino and Kim basically banish her to the kitchens so that she no longer has to interact with the public.

Just as she is finishing for the day--only the mopping remains--a taxi pulls up to their door. 

A slim man dressed all in black appears, and he’s got a huge Louis Vuitton suitcase with him. A mesh, structured sort of duffel bag is strapped diagnally across his chest; it contains a soft, fuzzy black lump.

Marinette trips over her mop as she tries to reach him, feet tangling in metal pole and cottony, sudsy strips of cloth.

He catches her before she can eat tile, prompting a pathetic little mewl-growl from the bag at his hip.

“Mari,” says Adrien, and his--his chin is trembling. “How many times can you possibly fall for me all over again?”

“Adrien!” she cries, throwing her arms around his neck, smashing their mouths together with a sharp clack of teeth. He kisses back frantically, all tongue and force and desperation; for three seconds she thinks they might just wind up banging on the floor, but she controls herself successfully enough to remember that he...well, for all intents and purposes, he shouldn’t be kissing her at all. “What are you _doing_ here?!! I’ve been so freaked out--your dad came by yesterday, and I wanted to--to tell you, but...you just--disappeared--”

“Let’s not talk about that yet,” he says hastily, lifting her up to crush her into his chest in an absolute clamp of a bear hug. She dangles nearly a foot off the ground in his hold.

He’s so warm; he smells like--well, truthfully, he smells like he hasn’t had a shower in a little while, but it isn’t unpleasant. It’s just strong. Marinette pulls back from him as he sets her back down; she almost can’t believe he’s _here,_ actually here, even as she has him in her arms. She needs to look at him.

He smiles at her, wet eyes crinkling at the edges.

“You’re here,” she says, and then panic sets in afresh, because he looks AWFUL (or ethereally beautiful and artistically tortured by normal human standards), and he _shouldn’t be here_ . “What’s wrong? And is that _Plagg_ in that cat carrier?” 

“Oh, I decided to take a vacation,” he says, smile weak and forced. “Er. Well. No, it's not a vacation...I...I'm kind of. Hiding from the press. Would you...mind...can I stay with you for a little while?”

Marinette plasters herself to him again. He lifts her up again, _all_ the way up, so she has to wrap her legs around his middle to anchor herself. She’s careful not to catch Plagg’s carrier with her feet.

“Stay forever,” she says into his throat, squeezing him with every movable part of her body.

\--

Marinette forgets to finish mopping the floor.

\--

“ADRIEN!” Nino cries, jumping off the sofa to tackle him. “What’s up, man?!! How’ve you been? Mari sucks at giving us updates.” He winks as he says that, because it very clearly isn’t true; Marinette never shuts up about him. Marinette punches him very lightly on the bicep; she’s surprised at the fervor with which Adrien hugs him back, smooshing their faces together, ear-to-ear, and everything. 

“Hi Nino,” Adrien says into Nino’s neck, where he’s planted his nose.

“Dude, is that a _cat_?” Nino asks, breath ruffling Adrien’s hair. “Nice, I love cats.”

“Yep, that’s a cat. He’s sedated, but he should wake up soon. I’m really sorry to just...dump a cat on you. And--myself, obviously,” is Adrien’s wobbly response, digging his fingers into Nino’s hoodie.

Nino flashes a _very_ concerned frown at Marinette over Adrien’s shoulder.

Marinette again starts to worry, front teeth finding the tattered skin ribboning away from the bed of her oven-scarred thumbnail, and she waits for the men to release each other. 

“Bro, listen; I love this hug, it’s legit one of the best hugs I’ve ever had, but--A) I can’t breathe, and B) um...I mean this in the most loving way possible? But you need a bath, my man.”

“I do,” Adrien says, as Nino very gently peels him away. Marinette and Nino stare in horror as his face crumples into something akin to James Dean despair. “I’m so sorry to just...show up like this. I...I couldn’t...I. I.” His shoulders start to shake. “I hope you don’t mind me staying for a bit?”

“Are you kidding? It is my _honor_ to have you show up out of the blue like this. I’m sorry we still have hoodies in our kitchen drawers.”

“I love hoodies,” Adrien says, eyes filling with tears. “I love drawers.” 

“Okay, kitty, come on,” Marinette says, latching onto his arm. She can see Nino beginning to freak out; if they don’t get out of there quick, Adrien’s going to have to answer a lot of questions, and something tells Marinette that Adrien isn’t in a question-answering mood. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.”

“I’m so sorry to impose,” Adrien says unsteadily, as his chest starts stuttering under his unseasonably-thin jumper. Both Nino and Marinette immediately shush his apologies. She can see his ribs expanding and contracting; their ridges stretch against the fabric on each rapid inhale. Nino shoots her a straight-up-terrified look, and she shakes her head at him, wide-eyed. She has no idea what’s going on either. 

Nino gently pulls Plagg out of his carrier as Marinette leads her fragile, trembling Adrien upstairs.

After seating Adrien on the closed toilet lid, she starts the taps, and collects their softest towels from the cupboard. Whatever has happened is obviously really bad; Adrien is so slim, and his face is so shadowed...even his limp, unwashed hair somehow manages to look upset. He sits there staring at her for ages; it’s almost as though he can’t see her. She has to remind him he’s sitting on a toilet because he’s going to take a bath. He startles when she starts speaking to him, blinking like he’s been slapped, and when he goes to lift the hem of his shirt, he doesn’t even pretend at anything approaching modesty. Marinette turns her back to him as he strips away everything else, and when he starts making for the tub, she hears him trip over the shoes he’s just discarded, like he’d forgotten they were on the floor.

She reminds him that he’s welcome to everything in the bathroom; she apologizes for all of the eight million bras she and Alya always leave everywhere, but it’s simply a formality, because it’s obvious he doesn’t care about anything she’s saying. When she makes for the door, his wet hand darts out to catch her wrist.

“Stay?” he asks, in this tiny, faint little slip of a voice, and when she turns back to him, he’s hyperventilating again, ever so slightly.

“Oh, my love,” she asks, twisting to kneel on the tile beside him, knees dampening in the water he’d splashed all over the place when he’d slid into the water. “What’s happened?”

His hand is still clutching the wrist that he always seems drawn to, and she has to twist her arm to ease his vice grip.

“Marinette...I don’t even know where to begin,” he says. 

He doesn’t even try.

She doesn’t force him to.

\--

The offices of _Paris Today_ are in an absolute uproar. Alya’s editor, Jean-Luc, is screaming at somebody on the phone; three of the senior field reporters are already throwing on coats and heading out the door. Alya can’t quite believe what she’s seeing on the TV screen; even Nadja Chamack, poster-woman for journalistic professionalism and impartiality, seems somewhat at a loss, reading the cues on her prompter almost robotically.

Alya doesn’t notice her phone buzzing on her desk, because she’s too busy taking in the headline.

**_BREAKING: Paris Police Arrest Gabriel Agreste on Multiple Charges of Coercion; Intimidation_ **

“...mogul Gabriel Agreste, who is currently the subject of an international arrest warrant issued by French police earlier this week. The Los Angeles Police Department took the Paris-based designer into custody at Bob Hope International Airport late last night, and he is expected to be returned to Parisian authorities sometime later this week. Agreste is allegedly involved in the Peacock Blackmail Affair, referring to a ring of “hackers” employed by multiple suspects to share illegally collected information for the purposes of blackmail, intimidation, and coercion. According to multiple victims of the ring’s activities, hackers had access to phones and computers used to blackmail high-profile figures, including Agreste’s own son, actor Adrien Agreste, known most widely for his role as Chat Noir in the highly successful _Miraculous_ films. Police arrested six people for their alleged involvement in the Peacock scandal, including _Voici_ reporter Lila Rossi, who recently earned notoriety and acclaim for her apparently un-authorized expose on Adrien Agreste. At this time, Agreste’s son is unavailable for comment. The list of suspects in the Peacock Ring also include two local Parisian police officers, and Agreste’s own personal assistant, Nathalie S…”

“Oh my god,” Alya gasps, watching grainy mobile footage of Chloe and Adrien at last Spring’s _Ladybug_ premiere. Lila is very clearly visible in the line of photographers at the velvet-roped barrier. “Oh my _god,_ Adrien...”

Why the hell would anyone do this to their own son? Why would he leak information about their family, _damning_ information, to the press, from his own son’s phone? What would that possibly achieve? Lila’s article hadn’t exactly painted a sympathetic picture of Gabriel; it makes zero sense.

And why the hell hadn’t Max said anything? Max had to have known.

...actually, if this is as big as it seems like it is, Max probably wasn’t allowed to say anything, honestly. Still, though...

What is going on?

Alya reaches for her noisy phone at last, answering it without looking at the screen.

“Alya! It’s just--it's just too awful!” Chloe cries, voice cracking with her sobs. “What--what _cretin_ would try to frame Uncle Gabby? This is _disgusting!_ I swear, if that...that _Mack_ person did this--”

“Chloe, Max is the best person I know. Please stop,” Alya says. “Where are you? Is Sabrina with you? Are you alright?”

“I’m in New York! Why the hell am I three thousand miles away?!!” Chloe wails. “I have to come _home;_ Adrien isn’t taking my calls, and we were supposed to be shooting something for ScreenIcons next week, and he’s _canceled everything--_ ”

“Chloe, listen. Sorry. I need to call Marinette,” Alya says, shooing away somebody who’s come up to her with a stack of papers. Screw her job, this is her real life. She has to call the bakery. She has to make sure Marinette is okay. 

“Alya, don’t you dare hang up on me--”

Alya does precisely that, nanoseconds before Nino’s number flashes up. 

“Babe, are you with Marinette?” she asks abruptly.

“Yeah, she’s upstairs in the bathroom,” Nino says. “Hey, can you grab dinner? We’re gonna need an extra pizza; you’ll never guess who just showed up!”

“Listen, no, I can’t; I need you to make sure she’s okay--I need to talk to her _now--_ ”

“Why, what’s happening?” 

“Dude, Nino, check TVi; they just arrested Gabriel Agreste for coercion, and who knows what the hell else--”

“Oh,” Nino says, good cheer dissolving instantly. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“Why? Is Marinette okay? Oh no, Nino, I _knew_ Rossi was involved in terrible stuff, but this. _This?_ ”

“Well, _Marinette’s_ okay. I mean, I think she’s in the bathroom, like, scrubbing Adrien’s hair. I think...I think he’s _crying,_ Lyly.”

“Oh, oh _shit,_ is Ad--” She looks around; a couple of her coworkers are staring at her with inquisitive eyebrows. She drops her voice to a whisper, glowering at them. God-damned journalists. “Are they together?”

“Eeeeeeeeyup.”

“TELL NO ONE.”

“You know I’d never.”

“Good. Okay. Um.” Alya doesn’t quite know what to do with that information. “Okay. Oh god, okay. I’m going to--wow, this is like, a CATASTROPHIC mess.” Now that she knows Marinette is alright, her heart starts slowing back down slightly. “Okay. I guess...I guess I’ll see you guys at some point. I might...it might be a late night for me; I’m going to have to cover this.”

“No problem, babe. I’ll handle dinner.”

“Honestly, Nino, dinner isn’t my top priority at the moment--”

“That’s why you have me,” Nino says warmly. “I’ll grab something for us, and then I’ll bring some for you. How does that sound?”

“That sounds amazing,” Alya melts, limbs softening. Her phone bleeps; she has another incoming call. Her boss is walking over; she immediately jerks a finger up at him, demanding he wait. He does, because nobody fucks with Alya when she’s wearing her Don’t Fuck With Me expression. “Hold on, I have another call--I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”

“Love you!” Nino says, and Alya is reminded again why she’d proposed to him all those many months ago.

“Love you too,” she says quickly, before swapping lines. “Hi Kagami, things are kind of crazy--”

“Oh, I know,” Kagami says casually, and Alya can imagine her lounging on her favorite armchair, looking for all the world like a Bond villain. “So. I presume you’ve guessed why your very good friend, who also happens to be a lawyer, is calling you at this exact moment.”

“Oh for God's sake, what _now?_ ” Alya groans, because of _course_ she has.

\--

Adrien is still in the tub, wilted over the edge of it like a single dying rose in a gigantic white vase. She’s currently combing her stupid, _ludicrous_ My Little Pony shampoo through his hair, massaging his scalp gently with the pads of her fingers, because he’s been in the tub for nearly an hour now, and up until she’d started doing it for him, hadn’t made any indication that he was actually going to...well, bathe. He’s finally calmed down, though he’s still clingy; she’d gotten up to put a towel under her knees, and he’d gasped like it hurt. She hadn’t taken six whole steps, and the distance was too much.

He hasn’t said anything, but she can guess his grief almost definitely has to do with Gabriel. She isn’t vapid enough not to connect his father’s uncomfortable visit with Adrien’s complete, utter meltdown.

...whatever it is, though, he’s in the right place, because as long as he is with her, nothing-- _NOTHING--_ is going to touch him. Period. Not on HER watch.

She uses her cupped palms to rinse pinky-mint blackberry suds from Adrien’s head, and he sighs softly. Water and shampoo dribble everywhere, slinking down her arms, turning the fine mist of flour that always coats her after a day at work into a tacky film. When she’s satisfied she’s gotten the majority of the shampoo out, she settles into massaging his neck, rubbing soothing circles into the absolute forest of knots that form his muscles. He groans, falling forward, resting his forehead against his bent knees.

“My father is a criminal,” he says after a while, and the words are a bit raspy, muffled by leg.

“Sorry, my love,” she says, jerking her hand back when he hisses as she hits a particularly gnarled spot. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I’m sorry, again, about...just showing up...I don’t have anywhere else to go, I mean...okay, I could go anywhere but...I don’t want to be alone, and I can’t even...I just wanted to be with _you._ ”

“I want to be with you too, Adrien. You know any time you want to hide from the press, this is the first place you should go.”

He reads that as Marinette asking for an explanation, so he braces himself. 

“See, it’s...well. So what’s happened is...my father has been arrested on suspicion of blackmail and coercion, and I...I know he’s guilty,” he says, voice a bit stronger now.

Marinette gasps. “What? _Really_?”

“I mean, I always figured he’d be...you know, capable of that. I mean, your wife doesn’t exactly abandon your family if...you know. Your family is great.”

Marinette wants to say something about that, because _Adrien IS_ great, but she doesn’t want to stop him talking, now that he finally is. Besides, this is...she can’t even really grasp how huge and terrible Adrien’s situation is.

“And you know, all of this would just be--well, just another horrible thing that I’d have to acknowledge he’s done,” Adrien continues, “but I--well. Not only am I one of the people he’s... _used…_ ”

Marinette’s jaw unhinges from her face and basically rolls downstairs. “ _What?!!_ ”

“...I’ve also _benefitted_ from all of this. I mean, okay, I can’t say for sure that I have, but...almost everyone I’ve ever worked for was connected to him in some way,” Adrien huffs. “I have no idea how many people were _forced_ to sign me, or dress me, or give me gifts, or--or hire me--” He swallows thickly. 

“Adrien. Were you involved in the coercion?”

“ _No._ Never. Not by choice.” He sighs again. “But, I mean, who would believe me if I said so?”

“I do!” Marinette says vehemently. “Everyone will! Of course they will!”

“--what if, what if...what if I go to prison, because of things _he_ did? I mean, what if...what if I’m just as bad as he is, what if I’m--” He starts going all quivery again, grip tightening on her, “I don’t even know if I--if I earned _Chat,_ because--because he _knew_ the producers; they all knew them--and I mean, _no,_ he didn’t want me involved in the franchise in the beginning, of course, but--”

“STOP,” Marinette says, before he can spiral down that road.

Adrien’s mouth closes with a loud clack of teeth.

“Adrien,” Marinette strokes her short little nails over the curve of his shoulderblade, because she knows he likes it, and it makes him shiver, “ _you_ are Chat. Nobody can take that from you. That is _yours._ I don’t care if your dad, like, held a gun to those people’s head--”

“--he might have, Marinette; I mean, he _really_ might’ve done that--LA is so crazy--”

“I...okay, that’s _crazy,_ but--nobody can take that away from you,” her tone is sharp. “ _Nobody._ ”

He goes still, slumping even further; his nose is mere centimeters from the surface of the water.

“You can...ask me to go,” he says lamely.

“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t let you if you tried.” She pauses. “Don’t try it. Just...just don’t go anywhere without us. We’re your bodyguards now.” Her voice darkens. “...and I’ll tell you what: me, Alya, and Nino are a _hell of a lot_ scarier than G.”

She returns to working at his neck, making sure his face doesn’t actually dip down any further. 

So. That’s why Gabriel had come to see her.

She turns that over in her mind for a while, motions becoming mechanical as she ponders. Had Gabriel...had Gabriel Agreste, _actual gangster,_ given them his blessing? Was that what happened?

No, that’s too crazy. She shoves that thought aside. Even if he had, he doesn’t deserve to have a single thought about Adrien ever again. Period.

“I’m so sorry, Adrien,” she says gently, returning to the present. “I can’t imagine how horrible you must feel.”

“I’m glad you can’t,” Adrien’s lock on the wrist that isn’t connected to her massaging hand eases somewhat, sliding gently downward so that he can tangle their fingers together. “They might...they might arrest me for things he’s done, you know? I mean, that’s a real possibility.”

Marinette’s hand falters. “How could they do that? You had no idea. You had no part in it.”

“There will be an investigation, obviously, and somehow it’ll come back to me eventually, I’m _sure,_ ” Adrien says softly. 

“If it does, literally _everyone_ will vouch for you, Adrien,” Marinette says. “Everyone. You are--” her breath catches in her throat, and she can’t resist looping her arm over his shoulder. “You are _so loved._ Everyone loves you. And I’m sure everyone, even people that were _threatened,_ would defend you. Everyone. Because _you didn’t do it._ ”

She kisses his face fiercely, and he leans into her. His eyes squeeze shut against the corner of her mouth; she feels his skin contract against her lingering lips.

“Marinette,” Adrien says after a moment, “he’s my _father._ He’s family.”

Marinette’s heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces, shards of rage and sadness and _more rage_ prickling at all of the sides of her.

“I know,” she says through gritted teeth, before her brain decides to go all Marinette-y at him. “But...you are here, and you’re with us, and...and...WE’RE your family now,” she says. “I know that can’t possibly...can’t possibly...fix...anything, I mean...this is...this isn’t...I’m not discounting the seriousness of what’s happened or anything. Not at all. I just mean--we’re going to support you. ANYTHING YOU NEED, we will handle it. So until the cops come knocking at our door with a warrant or something, I am--we all are--going to spoil you rotten and take great care of you, and even when they _do,_ IF they do, we will _still_ take care of you. I’m talking--I’m talking, like, passionfruit macarons for breakfast every single day, and mimosas for lunch, and...all-day Mecha Strike, and foot rubs and...and...pyjamas til 3 p.m. and...I don’t know. Three hour blowjobs.”

She even shocks herself with that last one, but a little laugh explodes out of Adrien’s mouth.

“That last thing...don’t do that, please,” he says. “All-day Mecha Strike, yes. Macarons? Yes. Plain old five minute blowjobs are perfectly fine.”

“Five minutes?” she laughs at him now, even though she’s crying inside, like, a _lot._

“Fine. Two minutes.”

“Oh dear,” she says, giving him a little snuggle. “I hope two minutes isn’t the sort of standard time-frame we’re looking at for...spoiling...activities.”

He laughs again, and it doesn’t sound forced, which is progress. He tilts his face slightly, so she has to tip her chin to avoid smearing chapstick all over his eyelid. “What can I say, Princess? I’ve waited months to see you. Pardon me if I can’t contain my excitement.”

She clears her throat then; it probably isn’t remotely healthy or fair to be throwing around innuendos when Adrien is in a horrible, turbulent state of emotional vulnerability, experiencing what is easily the worst thing that’s happened to anyone she’s ever known personally...regardless of whether or not his gripping hand has somehow slid from her palm all the way up and then back down toward the curve of her waist, where it is currently threading its way into her apron strap.

He angles his face sideways, dragging his bottom lip up the underside of her chin until he hooks the tip of his tongue up and under her front teeth, tracing the line of them. She shivers as he deepens the kiss, sealing their lips together on a soft intake of breath. His fingers skirt back up the entire length of her torso, coming to rest over her ears, stroking her cheeks as he sucks softly at her mouth.

They kiss for so long that she begins to feel a bit lightheaded.

He pulls away first, flushed all the way down his chest, eyes half-lidded and dark. She gulps at him, trying to quiet the roar in her blood.

“I--uh,” he blinks at her. “I got carried away. I’m--sorry.”

“All that talk of Mecha Strike will do that to a man,” she says sagely, nodding with such excellently performed dignity, she might be an Oscar contender herself.

He smiles at her, and it’s the first real one she’s seen him wear since he arrived. He sinks back into the tub, legs folding as he reaches for the soap. She switches the warm tap on again to return a bit of heat to the water. 

“You’re not gonna do this part for me too, are you?” he winks, and she is really, deeply annoyed that her body responds to that suggestion with such blazing, instantaneous heat.

“Not tonight,” she says, “tomorrow, for sure,” though she does pet his hair again. “I have to make sure you’re okay first.” He leans up into her hand with what can only be described as a purr. 

“Mmm. That’s disappointing,” he sighs, before he traces a pawprint into the flour-goo on her forearm. “Mari, I--” his fades, once again, into seriousness. “Mari, I really am a mess. And this situation is really bad. And I’ve...dumped it in your lap, and…” His shoulders start shaking again. “I’m really sorry. If at any point you need me to go--and I know you’ve got more questions for me, but...I can’t...I don’t know the answers yet--but if you need me to _go_ , at any point--”

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she says, grabbing the soap out of his hands after all. “Give me the loofa, go on.”

He blinks up at her, because this is clearly not the reaction he’d expected.

“Listen,” she says, rubbing the lavender-lemon bar against scratchy poly fibre, avoiding making contact with those over-shiny emerald eyes, “I said forever before. I mean, I said--you know, you should stay forever. I mean it. I mean--” Face flaming, she reaches into the water to grab his ankle, hosting it upward, pressing his heel against the tub wall, so she can scrub at the long line of his sharp shin (it’s a damn good thing he’s so flexible), “--I mean whatever--and I mean _whatever--_ you wind up going through with all of this...um...all of this business, I’m here for you. And everyone else is, too. We don’t half-ass friendships in this group, okay? _Especially_ when one of us is...like...having a hard time. If we have to--I don’t know, dye your hair green and get you brown contacts and...find you some shady-ass place to get you a fake ID, and start...referring to you as...I don’t know. Bradley St. Claire, the...the...Tiger King of...South London, or something...I mean. We’ll do it. I know you can do accents, so--changing your identity will be a cinch.” 

She lathers him up, carefully tending to the ridges and bumps in his kneecaps, working at what looks like a Sharpie stain low on his thigh. She half-expects him to make some dumb pun, but he doesn’t. He’s very, very quiet.

“We can move to the country, where nobody,” _especially not your FATHER,_ she growls inside her head, dropping this leg in exchange for the other, still refusing to look him in the eye, “will ever find you, and we can, we can...have our little Emma, and our hamster, and...you can teach kindergarten, while you...raise...tigers on the side...except you’ll do it _ethically,_ of course; you’re not a _monster..._ or whatever...and I’ll...make wedding dresses, or something, and people will be like…‘wow, you look just like that famous guy!’--and we’ll all say, ‘What? Shut up crazy, no, look at this green...mohawk,’ you’ll have a mohawk, you know, like...kindergarten teachers usually do...and Nino and Alya will be Emma’s godparents, and they’ll watch the kids while we go on holiday to Iceland to see the northern ligh--ooh, how does moving to the Arctic sound to you? I had this idea about a muskox; I mean--it’s a dumb idea, but--well, it’s in _Canada,_ technically--Canada sounds _amazing--_ seriously, why do you have Sharpie all over your legs…?”

“Marinette?” he says, and she stops staring at the little blue dots all over Adrien’s calf to finally, finally look at his face.

“...yeah?” she asks, wondering how crazy her babbling sounds.

He doesn’t look like he’s worried about that. He’s gone all misty again, but this time he’s really, _really_ fond; like he can’t quite contain all of the fondness, like it’s leaking out of him.

She bites down hard on her lip to keep from crying herself. 

Her poor Adrien. Her sweet, silly, lovely, wonderful prince.

“That isn’t Sharpie,” he says, and she’s never heard anybody imbue a statement of polite correction with such tenderness. “They’re tattoos.”

She blinks down at his skin. She realizes that, oops, that _definitely_ isn’t marker; they are tiny constellations, curling around his lower legs. “Oh,” she says vaguely, and he catches the tail end of her braid in his fingers, toying with it. 

“They’re new. Only had ‘em about two weeks,” his tone is downy; delicate.

“You didn’t tell me you were getting tattoos.” She draws her fingers from star to star, following the jagged lines they create, raising goosebumps as she goes, wondering which formation she’s looking at.

“Also, if you don’t stop doing that,” he says idly, and then, with an edge of adrenaline-loopiness, “I’m going to drag you into this tub, and I’m going to get both of us really, _really_ dirty,” his lips curl, “and you’re just going to have to start scrubbing all over again.”

Marinette squeaks, and she squeezes the loofa so hard that she sprays both of their faces with soap suds.

\--

Adrien doesn’t leave the bathroom when Marinette pops into the shower after him, but there’s no more flirting after the soap foam vs. eyeballs incident, mainly because Marinette, having returned to her senses, REALLY can’t justify ravishing him when he’s feeling so terrible.

He does towel off her hair for her, pulling her into his lap afterwards for a cuddle. 

They sit like that for who knows how long, silent, safe, and warm.

(It’s okay that their first proper cuddle in months is on the lid of a toilet, because it’s _their_ toilet now, damnit. It’s _theirs,_ and it’s _safe,_ and it’s comfortable, and they are in love, and the world with its...definitions for how cuddles should go, or whatever, can just...shut up.)

\--

Nino has brought Adrien’s luggage up into her room; there’s no pretense where sleeping arrangements are concerned. It isn’t like they have another place for him to stay, anyway, and there’s no chance Marinette would allow him to even consider sleeping on the sofa. 

Plagg is awake now. He is deeply irritated that Adrien has flown him halfway around the world; having already claimed Marinette’s bottom drawer for his own, he hisses at them both when they clamber noisily through the trap door.

“He’s a grumpy old bastard,” Adrien says fondly, scooping Plagg up into still-bare arms despite his raging cat protests. He manages a few good swipes at Adrien’s chest before Adrien releases him again.

“We’ll scrounge up a box for him; we can shred up some newspaper, and I have plenty of baking soda. I think that’ll tide him over til tomorrow, yeah?” Marinette stoops to hold her hand out, letting Plagg smell her. He takes two accusatory sniffs, yawns hugely, stretches, and promptly falls asleep again.

“Perfect,” says Adrien, dropping onto the chaise lounge, mirroring Plagg’s yawn. He does look exhausted; Marinette wonders how long it’s been since he’s slept.

“I’ll bring you a tea and some water,” she says, rifling through her non-occupied drawers for her Chat pyjamas. It takes her a second or two to find them. “Would you like anything to eat…?”

She straightens, turning back to him with a smile, only to find that he’s already snoring softly, limbs gone limp, hair spilling over the pillow in a golden explosion. She smiles gently, allowing herself a few minutes to gaze at him; the smoothness of his sun-kissed skin, his worryingly prominent ribs and collarbones, his thick wrists and high cheekbones, those sweet dimples. Sighing regretfully, because she’s definitely not going to let him spend the night on her lounge in a towel (there’s no way they can hide him from the world if they have to rush him to the hospital for a perfectly preventable case of hypothermia), she kneels down beside him, stroking his forehead.

“Come on, chaton,” she pokes his cheek. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“Mmmmmmmffffffffff.” His lashes flutter. “Do I have to put on clothes?”

“Only if you don’t want to freeze,” she laughs. “Our heating isn’t great.”

“No clooooothes,” he whines, turning onto his side and smashing his face into the pillow. She laughs, gripping him around the waist, hauling him upright. He weighs _nothing._

The ease with which she manhandles him startles him somewhat, which would be slightly insulting, maybe, if Marinette wasn’t already aware that she is deceptively diminutive. She grins. 

He blinks at her, and he’s about to innuendo at her again, she can _tell,_ before he surprises himself with another yawn. She pats his knee, pulling him to his feet. 

“PJs, Adrien,” she smiles, pushing up onto her tiptoes to kiss his chin. “Then you can sleep.”

“Okay,” he says blearily, rubbing his right eye with a fist. He trudges grumpily over to his suitcase, unzipping the front pocket, pulling out a pair of silky yellow boxers. He slips them on as she turns her attention to the wall.

She’s still staring fixedly at Plagg’s floofy black inkiness when Adrien pushes up against her back, arms looping around her middle, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, pulling her into him so tightly that her breath stutters.

“Don’t ever mention it again,” she says, gripping the points of his elbows. “You’re--I--” Her toes are tingling, and her knuckles; he is so very warm, and solid, and real, and he’s here. _He’s here._

“You’re home now,” she says simply.

\--


	12. Chapter 12

Once Marinette has Adrien tucked into her loft bed, snuggled up in a proper duvet crepe and dead to the world like he invented the art of sleeping, she throws her fuzzy red dressing gown over her pyjamas and makes her way downstairs. She flips listlessly through Netflix for a while, finally settling on a nature documentary about polar bears. Nino eventually returns from delivering dinner to Alya; she is apparently still at work. Nino pats Marinette's hand as she eases onto one of the barstools; he presents her with a plate of thick East Mamma pizza, and she immediately begins stuffing her face.

“You splurged on us,” she says through her mouthful, not bothering with politeness.

He chuckles at her, wiping his lenses clean on the hem of his shirt. “Well, I thought Fancy Pants was going to be joining us.” He winks at her. “No, I thought, you know...he looked like he’d had a rough day; Alya’s _definitely_ having a rough night, so...might as well go for the good stuff.”

“I’m really sorry,” Marinette says, swallowing before she continues. “I know it’s unfair to just expect you’ll be okay with another housemate, and I’m sorry we hogged the bathroom for so long--”

“We don’t mind, obviously. Alya was so relieved that we have him here. She was afraid he was, like, alone on somebody’s yacht somewhere,” Nino laughs. “Apparently, we have been directed to provide full, detailed reports on the hour every hour to Chloe.”

“Chloe knows he’s here?” Marinette blinks at him. “I don’t--I don’t know if I had permission to tell Chloe--”

Truthfully, Marinette is fairly certain she has permission to tell absolutely _nobody,_ so the fact that information regarding Adrien is circulating with anyone isn’t a positive thought. 

“Don’t worry, M. Chloe knows that _we_ know if anything ever happened to him, she’d eat us alive--”

“And we know that _Chloe_ knows that we’d do the same to her.”

“Exactly.” Nino plops down onto the stool beside her, cracking open a bottle of apple juice. “So what do you think of all this business with his old man?”

“I don’t think anything, because I don't _get it_ ,” Marinette says, picking at a tomato. She sighs. “Remember how he came in the other morning--”

“--and was super weird,” Nino adds.

“Yes,” she nods. Her pizza, which had been so delicious just seconds ago, now seems a bit too dense for her. “I think he knew something was going to happen, kind of. I just wonder--”

“Alya mentioned Max must’ve known something was off, ‘cuz otherwise he had no reason to go back and look through Adrien’s, like, files, or whatever they are. Logs? I don’t know, you know what I mean.” He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “And they’re talking about this being some kind of like, blackmail ring or something. Did anybody actually blackmail Adrien?”

“I don’t think so,” she says. “I think he’s more worried that they were using shady methods to help advance his career behind his back. He’s...he’s pretty freaked out about that.”

“Man, that is really messed up. And he had no idea?”

“No. He still isn’t over the whole _Voici_ interview thing, of course, but...he hadn’t said anything about, like, anyone actually trying to blackmail him personally.”

“So Dickhead--”

“Dickhead?”

“Oh, sorry, that’s my new nickname for Adrien’s pops,” Nino shrugs, cracking his knuckles as he ponders. “Anyway, there are more people involved than just him. Alya says they’ve finally got something on Lila; I guess she had a bunch of photos and shit on her phone from, like, other people’s phones and stuff. It’s just going to be hard to pin down exactly who did what.”

“Nino,” Marinette says softly, “do you really think...that Adrien’s father would have wanted Lila to release that video for _Voici?_ It's totally baffling. It made Gabriel look _really_ bad. I...see, I’m sure that’s why all of those people at Camille’s were saying...what they said, when I went off on them.”

“Dude, why would anyone hack their grown ass kid’s phone in the first place? That’s not a person that makes any kind of human sense.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t add up,” Marinette says softly, and no, she really doesn’t want to finish her pizza now. In fact, she feels kind of sick. 

“That’s what Alya was saying,” Nino nods. 

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what happens at the trial.” Marinette glances at the finch clock; she really wants to wait for Alya to get home, so she can talk to her for a bit, but she’ll have to open the bakery in just a few hours, so she really ought to get some sleep while she still can. 

They sit together in silence for a while, mulling over the craziness that has been their lives since last May.

“Can I do anything for you guys? You and Adrien?” Nino asks, the gentle brown of his eyes a deep comfort as he peers at her, draping an arm over her shoulder. “Like, does Adrien have clothes and stuff? Are his...assets frozen? That’s, like, one of those...white collar problems, right?”

“He didn’t mention it,” Marinette says, smiling at him with all the appreciation she can muster. Nino is so great. “His suitcase is pretty massive, so.”

“I do remember that, yes,” Nino says, flexing at her, and she laughs, leaning into his side. 

“I promised him, like, we’d be there for him, mostly,” she shrugs. “Oh, and I told him you and Alya would be the godparents to our children, when we move to Canada.”

“Oh, well, that’s a given,” Nino nods, pulling his cap off his head, running fingers through his hair. “Canada, huh? Won’t you miss France?”

She snickers, butting his cheek gently with her forehead. He gives her a small squeeze, before fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“So,” he says, waggling it in front of her face, “are we telling the Couffaines about your man, or…?”

There are several message notifications on his screen, most of which are from Luka. He’s worried about her. She hasn’t texted him back; Kagami’s told him about Gabriel. She sighs.

“Just let them know Adrien and I are okay,” she says. “But...let’s not tell anybody anything about him being here until Adrien gives us the go-ahead.”

“You got it,” he says, tapping a quick reply, and sending it off with a little flourish. She stands, bringing her pizza slice over to the sink, retrieving a bit of foil to wrap it up in. 

“Thank you, Nino. You’re the best,” she says, sliding it into the fridge. He grins at her with his fantastic, sunshiney smile, shooting a thumbs up.

“See you dark and early?” he asks.

“As always,” she says back. He ruffles her hair before she makes for the stairs.

\--

When she pushes up through her trapdoor, phone flashlight shining so she won’t wake Adrien with anything brighter, she realizes with some measure of concern that the roof access panel is open, the cold night air chilling the room. Tightening her dressing gown around herself, she climbs the steps to the loft; the duvet is pushed into a pile near the foot of her bed, and Adrien is gone. 

She peeks her head outside, and she finds him sitting on the railing, legs swinging, staring out into the streets below. 

“ _...on a roof, all alone without his lady,_ ” he sings to himself, swaying slightly from side to side to the lullaby’s syncopated rhythm, body wrapped in the fuzzy white throw blanket she usually keeps on the back of her computer chair. “ _As Paris sleeps below, he passes lonely hours...little kitty on a roof, he is so cold without his lady…_ ”

“Okay, none of that now,” she says, pulling herself up and out in one fluid motion, startling him. “Your lady is right here, Monsieur.” 

Adrien turns around, fast enough that he wobbles, and she’s at his side so quickly, yanking him back onto the roof, that she surprises herself. He stares at her from where he’s collided into her shins, legs splayed over his head.

“Ow,” he says sheepishly, breaking into an embarrassed little laugh.

“Why are you up here?” she demands, and she can’t quite suppress the snarl in her tone. He blinks at her a few times.

“‘Cuz I like it? And I woke up, ‘cuz Plagg jumped on my face, and I couldn’t go back to sleep? And I...I could hear you and Nino talking, so I didn’t want to interrupt,” he offers. “I wasn’t...doing...anything dramatic.”

“No, sitting on the edge of a rooftop like a million meters above the streets of Paris _certainly_ isn’t dramatic--”

“--um, this building _really_ isn’t that tall--”

“--like you’re _Batman_ \--”

“-- _Cat_ man--”

“--singing the saddest song _in the world--_ ”

“--dunno, Mari, have you heard of a little ditty called ‘ _My Immortal?’--_ ”

“--ALONE--”

“--well, I’m not alone now,” he grins. “You just told me so.”

She huffs, and she might be stomping her foot like Kagami does if Adrien wasn’t squashing her toes into the rooftop. 

“Sorry I scared you,” he says. “I wasn’t going anywhere--”

“Adrien, I’m not worried about you...escaping, or something. I…” she bites her lip.

Adrien fills in the blanks, and goes quite soft and apologetic. “I swear, I just wanted to see the stars. That’s _all._ ”

“Isn’t the city a bit too bright for that?”

Adrien pouts a little, just slightly. “Well. I can imagine them.”

Marinette takes his hands, pulling him upright gently, and tucking the blanket back around his broad shoulders. He’s managed to put on sweats, at least.

“Okay,” she says. “Sorry I--sorry I freaked out.”

“It’s okay,” he says, squeezing their interlaced fingers. “It’s understandable.”

“Aren’t you cold?” she asks, taking in his gooseflesh and the red blotches painting his cheekbones.

“ _I’ve got your looooove to keep me warm,_ ” he warbles at her in his nasally singing voice, and she snickers at him.

“I walked straight into that one,” she rolls her eyes fondly. “Good thing you do, because my blanket certainly isn’t getting the job done.” She tugs him back toward the trapdoor. “Come on, let’s go inside. Pretend we have any common sense at all.”

He nods, following her lead.

They plop back down onto the bed--Plagg, who had been kneading happily at Marinette’s pillow, meows at them--and Marinette shuts the roof panel door. Tossing her dressing gown over the edge of the loft’s railing, she sinks into the softness of the bed, switching on her bedside lamp. The light comes dim and faintly golden at first, before gradually brightening to a comforting muted white.

Adren rearranges the duvet over their laps, sweeping a deeply unimpressed Plagg into his arms, nuzzling his little cat cheek.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, watching Plagg curl into a circle in the space between them once Adrien's released him from the snuggle.

“Better now you’re back,” he says, going for cheesy, but coming off genuinely appreciative on accident.

She smiles at him, twisting to lay on her side.

\--

Adrien watches as Marinette’s dark lashes flutter over the highest curves of her freckled cheeks, her loose, shower-tangled hair framing her against her floral pillowcase in a deep, blue-black pool. She’s trying to stay awake for him, but this is silly, because she needs to be up before he does. They’d been talking about _Titanic_ when her voice finally trailed off mid-sentence, her slender neck stretching ever so slightly as her face settled into soft cotton. His left hand is still curled into her right, silvery-pink scarring from her oven incident a jagged, tentacled starburst from the jut of her thumb knuckle to the slope of her wrist. The videos hadn’t done the injury justice; it’s a proper scar, the kind that has changed her hand’s silhouette somewhat, a stark contrast to the rounded smoothness that forms the rest of it’s outline. 

If he squints, though (he really needs to take out his contacts; they are dry enough that world has gone smudged and a bit surreal), he can make out layers of tiny nicks and scars, crisscrossing and blurring into each other, the results of a lifetime’s worth of bakery labor. There are other signs too: the musculature in her right arm is rock-solid, biceps and triceps straining the material of her sleeve, but her left arm is noticeably more slender; he figures it must come from stirring and mixing and decorating for hours and hours every day. Her shoulders could rival some of his superhero co-stars for definition. 

She’s so small, but so substantial; a brick house with a Disney princess voice and a will like iron. He can’t help but think of her as a palette: bluebell, crepe-pink, ink, ruby. She’s so, _so_ pretty; those smile lines that never quite fade, because she’s spend her entire life smiling, and her wrists, and ankles, and the creamy stretch of her sternum melting away under the line of her collar; the faint lightning-fork veins streaking across her eyelids, trails to the arcs of her plush crescent moon eyelashes with their dark curled tips that still seem slightly impossible.

Realizing he’s pulling a proper Edward Cullen, complete with probably-creepy staring and purple-prose inner monologue, he reaches for one of the books on the shelf above his head, content to read until sleep finally returns to him.

Cracking the cover, he snickers to himself; he can’t help it.

It’s a repair manual for one of the giant stand mixers downstairs, covered in little doodles of who he can safely assume are Nino, Alya, Luka, and Kagami. There’s a funny one of Kim being chased by a giant, rabid croissant monster; he flips the page and he finds a wee cartoon Marinette sitting on a massive pile of pastries like some great and terrible king. Then comes a set of rough design sketches: a three piece suit with billowing, asymmetrical tails printed in colorful Sharpie dahlias; a halter dress in vaporous fantasy cream that flows into earthy browns and greys, gradient, puddling on the floor in a spray of eagle feathers; a hard-angled pair of men’s trousers that seem to be formed from foil and yarn. 

There are hundreds of tiny drawings; nearly every page is graffitied, to the point that some of the directions are indecipherable. There are people he doesn’t recognize: a hulking man with a tiny, sunshiny counterpart; there’s someone that looks very similar to Max Kante. He’s often with Kim, and they’re usually doing something dumb.

Adrien keeps flipping until he reaches the last page, and then he stops.

He finds, spilling onto the back cover, a sea of pencil sketches, in a markedly more refined style than the pictures that came before it. The lines are fresh; they aren’t smudged or losing luster as the other doodles have. 

They are new.

A man with wild, colorless hair, staring at a croissant; the same figure smiling at a chunky black cat; reclined on a beach chair, wearing a black turtleneck jumper and green Speedos, looking for all the world like Old Hollywood; spilling a bowl of meringue; laughing brilliantly so all of his large, straight teeth show; laying prone on what looks like a kitchen island, snoring big comic bubble-letter Zs.

Adrien smiles at the images of himself produced by Marinette’s scarred, lovely hand.

He looks dang good, if he does say so himself. 

It's deeply comforting, to find himself included in such a chronicle.

\--

The sheets beside him are empty when he wakes up, save for the lazy lump that is Plagg. Late afternoon sun streaks across the inverted slopes of Marinette’s ceiling. He sighs...he’s going to be horrendously jetlagged tomorrow; he can already feel the misalignment of his circadian rhythms, and he wonders just how long and how late he’s actually slept. Pushing the duvet away, he stretches his arms above his head, joints cracking. He needs to get some food for Plagg; he hopes the housemates won’t mind if he raids their cheese drawer in the meantime, since he can’t exactly stroll into the nearest grocery store for actual cat kibble.

(He thinks, vaguely, that Marinette needs new bedsheets. These are comfortable and they smell amazing, but they are easily twenty years old, worn and faded and so thin in spots he can actually make out the duvet insert through the fabric. The pink has been rubbed to almost silvery shininess; when he smooths his knuckles across a patch, the fabric is polished, like it’s been calendered. Maybe he’ll go online and see what he can find later.)

He already wishes Marinette was here. Of course she’s working downstairs; she hasn’t _gone_ anywhere, and he has no justifiable reason to _need_ to confirm that yes, that’s where she will be, but he...does. Adrien can be a bit clingy. He knows it isn’t the healthiest thing in the world. 

When he begins to scoot himself stepladder-ward, his hand catches on a piece of paper; he unfolds it, finding Marinette’s handwriting waiting to be read.

_Kitty--_

_Didn’t know whether to wake you. You’re welcome to absolutely anything you like. Lots of goodies in the fridge; eat everything! You know where we are if you need us._

_Love, Bagueinette_

She’s drawn a bread cat for him.

\--

Adrien throws on another one of Marinette’s ancient jumpers and makes his way downstairs. He needs coffee like _oxygen._ There are terrible, curse-riddled somethings to be said for post-10-hour-flight dehydration, and he’s kind of irritated with his overly-dramatic yesterday’s self that he hadn’t managed to drink a single glass of water. Chloe would be smacking him right now (her admonition would go something like: _“Oh my gOD, Adrien...drink this ENTIRE Perrier. You've aged like ten years in a NIGHT. I love you, you dehydrated bitch."_ If TikTok were a person, _honestly…_ )

He’s fumbled his way through all of Marinette’s cabinets before he realizes the coffee press is sitting next to the sink.

Ugh, maybe he should just...go back to bed.

The front door opens, and he turns to find Alya dropping her keys and an entire filing box on the floor. Her lovely, heart-shaped face is shadowed; she’s scowling at nothing, tearing her bottle green 1950s-secretary glasses away to scrub at her eyes. She’s wearing a lovely purple trench, speckled with what looks like rain--he hadn’t realized it was raining--and she’s piled all of her hair onto the top of her head in a messy, lopsided pile. The...oh. The heel is missing from one of her dazzlingly orange pumps.

She is a mirror for how he feels.

“Bonjour, Alya,” he says. He doesn’t bother asking how she is, because...well. The answer is obvious.

“Hi, Cat Boy,” she grumps. “Make me a cup too, would you?” 

Throwing her jacket off, revealing a rumpled orange pencil skirt and partially untucked white blouse, she drops sideways onto the sofa, throwing an arm over her forehead.

“You got it,” he says, going for gentle sympathy; maybe a touch of encouragement, and Alya groans at him. 

“None of that Prince Charming nonsense, Agreste,” she grunts. “Don’t try to cute me out of a bad mood. Save that for your girl.”

He grins a little sheepishly at her as he fills the kettle. “But what if I can’t help it?”

“I know you can,” she says flatly, before she pushes herself back up off the cushions, kicking her shoes off in two haphazard arcs. She stands, crossing over to him, and surprises him by tucking him into a very warm side-hug.

“How are you doing?” she asks, pulling back to rest a hand against his shoulder.

“You guys have to be the huggiest people in France,” he says wistfully, wishing she hadn’t pulled away so soon. “Not that I’m complaining.”

She smiles at him. “Oh, are you stereotyping us now, Malibu Ken? Pretty sure Chloe spends 98% of your time together plastered to you.”

He laughs brightly. “Ah, yes, but physical touch is our love language, and Chloe hardly counts as Parisian anymore.”

“Mmmm, _your_ love language, maybe; I’m fairly certain Chloe’s is verbal abuse,” she says. “Speaking of which, you might want to text her to let her know you’re not dead.”

“That’s...probably a good idea,” he says. He’s still not sure what the hell he’s going to say to his oldest friend; Chloe can’t be taking any of this any better than he is. He can’t imagine that she’s handling her “Uncle Gabby’s” pending incarceration with any kind of dignity. He sobers a bit, frown blooming on his face as he scoops grounds out of the little ladybug-printed canister beside the wooden spoons and spatulas. “Are _you_ okay, Alya? You’re home kind of early.”

Alya goes _pfffffffffffffttt_ . “Oh no, honey, I’m definitely _not_ home early. I’ve racked up nearly fifteen hours of overtime. I was on the clock since yesterday morning.” 

His hand falters on his coffee scoop. “Seriously?”

She nods, sighing. “I’ll tell you what, Agreste...your family doesn’t do anything half-way, do they?”

She realizes immediately she shouldn’t have said that, and though Adrien does his best not to wilt, he doesn’t quite manage to keep his spine straight and stately.

“Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it like that,” Alya says, rubbing a soothing circle into his shoulder. “I’m really tired and I’m really grumpy and I’m _really angry_ that you’re going through this, and...I do have a bit of a temper, especially when I’ve been awake for like thirty hours. None of this is aimed at you, though.”

The kettle gives a click as it reaches a boil. He resumes his coffee-making. 

“So...it’s pretty bad, is it?” he says, going for disinterested, but coming off more...kicked-puppyish.

“It’s not great,” she says gently. “But your pops wasn’t the only one involved. He’s just...the highest profile member.”

He grunts at that. Of course he fucking is; Gabriel Agreste always has to be the shiniest rock in any dirt pile, after all.

“I’m really not looking forward to testifying,” Adrien says, a little too honest for himself, but there’s no point being formal or distant with Marinette’s people, after all. Especially not Alya, who, according to Marinette, would just work it out for herself anyway; she’s basically psychic.

“Well, unless they try to paint you as the bad guy--which, honestly, I really don’t think anyone is going to; if anything I think the whole of France is already forming your protection squad, you should see the twitter comments alone--I don’t think they’ll do that,” Alya says. “I’ve been talking to Kagami about all of it, since...she’s a lawyer and all--”

“I remember,” Adrien nods.

“--but they won’t force you to testify against your father or Lila or anyone else unless you decide to,” she shrugs exhaustedly.

Adrien pours water into the carafe, careful not to splash himself. “Won’t they? I mean, I don’t _want_ to, but...I also don’t want to be held in contempt of the court.”

“Things don’t work like that here,” Alya leans against the island, reaching up to start tugging pins from her makeshift beehive. “Especially not when they already have plenty of evidence in the first place.”

“Really?” Adrien blinks at her.

“Completely different court system than what I assume you’re used to,” Alya says. “They might have you submit documentation of anything sketchy they don’t already have on record, but they aren’t going to subpoena you to show up in court; not as a victim, anyway.” She goes very soft, pretty, sculptured eyebrows drawing together in raw, open sympathy. “It isn’t the judge’s job to make things _worse_ for you.”

“Oh,” Adrien says, and he’s amazed at how much lighter that makes him feel. “Okay.”

They stand in silence for a little while, as Adrien replaces the filter in the press.

“Do you think Kagami would mind...sort of...explaining things to me herself?” Adrien says after a little while. “ I don’t want to impose, or...come off like I think I deserve her advice for free. But I also...I don’t really want to talk to our family lawyers...”

“...yeah, I would advise against going anywhere near them,” Alya says darkly. “Conflict of interest. _Your_ interests, specifically. I’m sure Kagami wouldn’t mind. You--you don’t mind her knowing that you’re here?”

Adrien chuckles. “I’m not going to make you all keep secrets from each other,” he says gently. “I’ve already caused everyone so much trouble. Please don’t...tell anyone else, of course, but...you’re not exactly the general public.”

“And _that’s_ why we get to hug you,” Alya says with ferocity enough to match even Marinette’s, and that makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. 

\--

If his coffee is a little burnt, Alya doesn’t say anything about it as she sends a quick text to the Couffaines. Despite her fatigue, she is extremely excited to meet Plagg, who, upon finding that she has a wedge of brie in her fist, becomes instantly infatuated with her.

Adrien can’t blame him. 

Adrien really likes Alya.

\--

Adrien is crawling out of his skin by the time Marinette and Nino wrap up for the day; Marinette can see it in the way he’s restlessly wandering around the sitting room, knocking things over with the flat of his palm, resetting them, only to do it again. He repeats this pattern with a PlayStation controller, and then he moves on to an empty water bottle on the coffee table, followed by all of Nino’s vintage Ninja Turtles figures on the bookcase, before swiping in irritation at a windbreaker hanging from the coat tree. He only notices that they’re standing in the doorway watching him when they both start snickering.

He straightens with a start, clutching the windbreaker to his chest guiltily, before the entire wobbly tree falls over behind him.

“Uh…” His face is very red. “Hi!”

“Hey man. Alya’s sleeping, yeah?” Nino asks, instead of acknowledging Adrien’s...activities.

Adrien nods.

Marinette tries to hide her loopy little smirk as he picks the coats back up, draping the windbreaker back over its peg with a placating little tap. Nino chuckles into his hand, dashing away to claim the shower; he’s got bright yellow powder all over him, the result of Kim throwing an entire pot of powdered food coloring during yet another kitchen battle. (Marinette had not been particularly happy about that, but Kim promised to replace it tomorrow, out of his own pocket. Honestly, he and Nino are _grown men._

...Marinette had chosen icing as her weapon of choice.) 

She crosses the rug to give Adrien’s hand a little squeeze. “Bored in the house, and you’re in the house bored?” she asks idly, grinning.

“More fidgety, really,” he says, still a bit embarrassed, so she tugs him down for a lipgloss-sticky peck on the mouth. He sighs, sliding hands around her waist. “Sorry about...whatever I was just doing.”

"What, really cute cat things?"

He chuckles.

“Speaking of, Nino brought cat litter home after his lunch break,” she says, “and a pan, and some food. I forgot to bring it up with us; sorry.”

“Thank you! That was nice of him. I’ll go find it in a bit,” Adrien says. He looks like he wants to kiss her again, but she’s still covered in bakery mess, so she keeps a solid four centimeters between them. It’s a struggle, though; a real test of her formidable will. 

His breath is spicy with her cinnamon toothpaste. It's good toothpaste.

She settles for squeezing his biceps, laughing a little more as she realizes he’s wearing yet another of her ancient shirts. 

“You’ve really got to stop raiding the _bottom_ of my closet,” she says, plucking the faded terry with her thumb and index nails.

He doesn’t offer up a response to that, so she pulls away before she gives in to torso-painting said jumper in flour and egg and who knows what else is currently smeared across her chest and stomach. 

“Did you have a hard day?” she asks, making her way toward their room. 

... _their_ room.

“No,” he says, following her. “Just missed you.”

“I was just downstairs, silly. You could’ve visited,” she twinkles at him over the curve of her shoulder. “Oh...though, what with...how Kim’s working with us now…”

“Kim’s not going to sell me out to the tabloids, right?”

“No, of course not,” she says. “Still, though...well, if you just popped down the stairwell to say hi, it isn’t like anyone in the shop would’ve seen you.”

“I didn’t want to interfere. You work so hard, and I _do_ have a history of burning everything...”

Her heart gives a little flutter, and she pushes open the trapdoor with a little shove. Adrien is just too sweet sometimes; Marinette _really_ likes sweet.

She really could get used to coming home to him every single day for the rest of her life.

Plagg immediately trots over to her, mewling.

“She doesn’t have any cheese, you glutton,” Adrien tells him, bending to scratch between his ears. 

Plagg ignores him and instead opts for rubbing his face against Marinette’s legs. It’s a far cry from how grouchy he’d been the night before.

Marinette pets him for a bit before planting herself in front of her sink, pumping soap onto her arms to take care of the worst of the flour. She scrubs for a bit, observing the state of her skin. Sure enough, the morning’s festive meringue has turned her nails green. There’s nothing for it, though. Food coloring is hard to get out. (Nino's going to be yellow for like a _week._ )

She begins unbuttoning the front of her dress, shaking powder all over the floor as she goes. She’s pretty messy today. 

...ugh, Kim.

“Adrien, can you grab something for me to change into?” she asks, shimmying out of her work dress, letting it fall to the floor. It meets hardwood in a little white cloud; she’s going to have to vaccuum. 

Adrien’s actually turned a bit red--redder than he had when they’d changed into their pyjamas the night before, for sure--which is silly, considering she’s in thick, batter-dotted tights and an old, pinkish-grey slip that might’ve been white once. It’s got a hole in the side and everything.

“Um.” He says, blinking. “Yup.”

He stares at her for a little bit longer, before turning mechanically toward the wardrobe. 

She laughs silently, though she’s probably a bit flushed now, too, tendrils of want uncoiling low in her belly.

She catches him sneaking another furtive peek at her in the mirror’s reflection, and she can’t help but laugh a little at that.

“Oh come on, kitty,” she turns to him with her arms crossed over her chest. “Are you really getting all hot and bothered over _this?_ ” She gestures at herself, hooking a finger into the hole in her slip’s seam, tugging at it. “Is this what you’re into? Sweaty mess?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, without pretense, and that makes her go very still indeed. 

She doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. “Oh,” is her dumbstruck response, and she looks down at her little toe poking through a snag in her tights. “Seriously?”

“As a train accident,” he says, and--Marinette catches his very intense, very hungry gaze. Oh, yes. Yes, he definitely is.

“You could...you could definitely describe how I look right now using that term,” she laughs, rubbing an imagined itch on the opposite shin with the back of her right heel.

“No, you look…” He’s clutching a pair of black leggings in his hands and he’s pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to eat her. 

Okay.

“Yes…?” she says at length, taking a step forward.

“Sorry,” he says back, eyes dropping from her face to rest on the battered, faded lace that dips into a sweetheart neckline, “I’ve completely lost my train of thought.”

“Hmmm. That seems a bit unlikely, seeing as how you’ve got a one-track mind,” she says, quick as lightning, and he huffs at her. It’s something like a pant.

“Oh, you can’t hit me with puns _and_ those legs, Marinette, after I’ve spent an entire afternoon languishing here by myself,” he says, tossing the leggings into a corner, shoulders curling inward as he reaches out to her with literal grabby hands, catching clinging satin in his fingers as he tugs her closer. “I’m not trained to handle both of those things at once.”

“You...verb. The--that was the wrong verb. I don’t think I hit things with my legs, Adrien,” she replies, skittering voice dipping low, keeping him at arm’s length. Now _her_ brain isn’t working. “Legs are for---for--walking. And...kicking.”

She needs to shower. Yes. She needs a _really_ cold shower. 

“Is that what they’re for?” he asks, gaze rolling down her body, stopping at her thighs. “I think maybe you’re one letter off.”

He drops into a crouch, pulling her to him hips-first, pressing his open mouth against her thigh, and she gasps. 

“That--” she breathes, as he _bites_ her through stretchy nylon, “--was _incredibly_ lame--”

He growls softly, the vibration of it rumbling into her marrow, and her knees nearly buckle. He’s nosing at the hem of her slip, fingernails raking at the back of her calves--

\--when with sudden, violent force, he sneezes so hard that he bashes his forehead against the sharp jut of her hipbone. The hands that were stroking her are suddenly clutching the ticklish crook of her knees, and they really do give out then.

“Ack!” she cries, arms flailing as she starts to lose her balance, and she’s only just managed to stabilize herself when he sneezes _again._

“Stockings, you’ve BETRAYED ME,” Adrien cries, staring at her legs with such piteous bemusement that Marinette actually goes “ _aaaawwwwww._ ”

\--and then he sneezes a third time. These aren’t little normal human sneezes either; it’s like he’s got a hurricane brewing inside of his sinuses. She does fall over now, because he’s still clutching her knees, and the ticklishness is no joke. With a hard _thwack,_ she lands straight on her tailbone.

“Oh no, are you okay?!!” he gasps as she bursts out laughing--sneeze number four--and he looks mortified, flopping in a show of grand defeat onto his belly, an epic, splayed-limbed starfish with his face in her lap. “Agh, Mari, I’m so sorry--” One more sneeze. 

“Don’t _breathe in more of it--_ it’s the flour!” she cackles, trying to rearrange her limbs into something less chaotic. She tugs at his hair, trying to free his poor nose from her pre-bread atmosphere.“I’m so sorry; of _course_ I’m covered in flour--they’re my work tights, I was trying to _change_ \--”

“Why am I so bad at this?!!” he cries, but now he’s grinning too, eyes watering. He sniffs, nose crinkling and stretching with irritation.

"You're _not--"_ she cries.

“All I want to do is romance you! Is that so much to ask?”

“ _Romance me_?!!” Marinette is laughing so hard now that she’s breathless. “Has anybody used that term in real life since the 1800s?”

“It’s going to be the 2800s by the time I actually manage to make it happen!”

“Well...at least nobody interrupted us this time?” she chuckles, reorienting herself so that she frames him in a loose approximation of a cobbler’s pose, her heels kissing in the center of his back. 

“ _I_ interrupted us this time!” Adrien moans as he cobra-bends to look up at her, and it’s so pouty and and whiny and _cute_ that she decides right then and there it isn’t going to be on Adrien to do the _romancing_ today.

Marinette pulls him rapidly up the length of her body until they are eye-to-eye, slithering her tongue straight into that overactive mouth of his. 

He lets out a happy, relieved little moan, every muscle melting, pressing her into the floorboards with his full weight. Still kissing her, his arms slide insistently between her waist and the floor; she rolls against him, tucking her feet into the space behind his knees, raking nails into and under her old jumper. 

He's got the hem of her slip bunched in his fists when he flips their position with an enthusiastic little giggle, rolling onto his back, planting her firmly in his lap. She gazes down at him from under the mess of her post-work hair, breathless. 

He goes to say something smart, so she smacks her palm straight over his coy, ridiculous smirk. “No! No chit- _chat,_ kitty.”

She removes her hand and promptly sinks her teeth into his lower lip, hard enough to sting but not to break skin, and he hisses delightedly, eyes squeezing shut as his spine arches beautifully off the floor. She takes the opportunity to jerk that too-tight jumper up past his ribs, smoothing her free hand over the grooves in his stomach, making him shiver, and then--

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“ _No,_ ” Adrien gasps.

“Hey guys,” says Nino, “we have company.” 

Marinette almost can’t believe it. Adrien _certainly_ can’t. They stare at each other, panting, for all of three seconds, before Marinette explodes.

“NINO! _THE AUDACITY!_ ” Marinette roars, pulling Adrien’s slipper right off his foot and throwing it at the trap door. It doesn’t offer her a thunk satisfyingly loud enough to demonstrate the depths of her rage.

“Uh...sorry?” Nino says. “I...guess?”

“This,” Adrien growls, “is the worst, _stupidest,_ most over-played running gag--”

“Kagami’s here,” Nino calls back, “and Luka, and they brought a cheese board--”

“Tell them I’m going to MURDER them, AND their cheese board!” Marinette shouts back, nerves screaming in protest as her brain wills the rest of her body to calm down. This is proving an exceptionally difficult task to accomplish, especially given that Adrien, with his massive black dinner plate pupils and makeout-swollen scowl, is still very much engaged in their pre-interruption state beneath her.

“I wouldn’t recommend that, given the circumstances, M,” Nino says, and it’s a bit terse now. 

Ah, well. That does the trick. Adrien’s hands slip away, and he gives one very annoyed little grunt of breath.

“Tell them we’ll be down in ten, _THANKS,_ ” Adrien says loudly, and not quite politely, after a moment of very grumpy, _very_ pregnant silence.

“--to _kill them,_ ” Marinette adds on. 

“You got it, my dudes.”

Adrien goes to kiss her again, absolutely everything in his being asking, ' _Now, w_ _here were we?'_ , but Marinette literally can't respond to it. If she does...they are _definitely_ not going to be anywhere near ready to see _anyone_ in an hour, much less ten freaking minutes. She sighs in frustration, stilling Adrien with a gentle tap on the chest.

“So,” Adrien says wryly, swiping his fringe out of his eyes. “This whole moving to Canada idea. Think we could get on that, like...immediately?”

\--

Marinette hastily throws on a change of clothes, tying her messy hair into a bun.

They are three seconds from heading downstairs when she catches Adrien by the arm.

He needs to change too.

(She’s left Very Specific flour shadows on his sweats.)

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter took 8 million years of research because i had to make sure i was  
> a) properly representing the long-term side-effects of being an artisanal baker (https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/ypxbk5/being-an-artisanal-baker-destroyed-my-body), and  
> b) making sure i understood specific aspects of the french judicial system (https://larevue.squirepattonboggs.com/gathering-evidence-how-does-france-compare_a2075.html#:~:text=The%20French%20courts%20rarely%20require,writing%20prior%20to%20the%20trial.)
> 
> yeah i do my homework, gimme an A professor


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting into the slightly more mature stuff now--just because I'm paranoid, I'd like to restate the fact that all of the characters are WELL into adulthood, and this is intended for a mature audience.
> 
> Also! Please enjoy my 12 Rue Gotlib [playlist if you'd like. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4ptv2HRNNo)

Marinette and Adrien arrive downstairs to find everyone waiting for them with raised eyebrows. 

“Still not sure why you couldn’t do this digitally,” Luka says offhandedly, idly drumming something that sounds a bit like Marilyn Manson’s  _ Beautiful People  _ on his knees. He and Nino are plopped on the floor back-to-back; it looks like Nino is playing something with Kim again on his phone.

“Because some of us don’t enjoy having 600 tabs open at once, or switching between 600 pdf files, or trying to compare four documents at the same time on a tiny, tiny screen,” Alya says coolly.

“I enjoy messing up Marinette’s house,” Kagami says.

She’s done a good job of it. Marinette’s coffee table is an actual ocean of paperwork. 

There is so much paperwork, in fact, that sheets are falling over each other in waves as Alya and Kagami flip through stapled packets and notes and old newspaper clippings from the ‘90s. Her coffee table has  _ tides.  _

“Whoa,” she says. “That’s a lot of stuff.”

“We’re just playing detectives,” Alya says, sentence catching on a yawn, a giant mug of coffee in her hands. 

Kagami rises to her feet, greeting Marinette first, and then Adrien. Luka smiles warmly at them both with those kind blue Hugh Grant eyes of his, and Kagami settles Adrien between her and Alya on the sofa as Marinette takes her usual place on the floor. Nino, not looking up from his game, nudges her apologetically with his foot. She is tempted to stick her tongue out at him, but she abstains. 

“I thought you were just here to offer me legal advice,” Adrien laughs wearily, staring down at the paper piles.

“So you’re not curious about any of this?” Kagami raises him the most skeptical eyebrow in the history of skeptical eyebrows.

“Well, not if...I’m going to get you in trouble,” he says, hand at the back of his neck again.

“You worry about keeping yourself out of trouble; I’ll worry about getting myself into it,” Kagami says sagely, sipping her tea with her pinkie in the air.

Kagami and Adrien talk legalese for ages, Alya punctuating the conversation every so often with information she’d unearthed at work. They discuss Adrien’s finances; which assets are his own and which belong to the family (there simply isn’t much to worry about there, because Adrien’s been working since he was fourteen, and of all the shitty things Gabriel has done, stealing his son’s earnings wasn’t one of them). Marinette doesn’t have much to contribute, apart from giving Adrien supportive ankle squeezes every so often, as sensitive subjects pop up. 

Kagami has been assigned to defend someone involved; she can’t say who it is, but she isn’t  _ remotely  _ happy about it, because from what she can tell,  _ none  _ of the ring are anything approaching innocent. Technically she shouldn’t be discussing this with anyone--in fact, as Adrien suspected, their entire conversation is horrendously illegal; like dis-barred,  _ jail-time  _ illegal, for Kagami specifically--but she’s so put out over the whole thing that she’d been two seconds from resigning again until Alya pointed out that it would be great for Adrien to know someone actually working on the case.

The crimes the Peacock Ring is being charged with were certainly not overstated in Nadja Chamack’s initial report; Gabriel’s home computer alone had information on fellow designers, two of the actresses Adrien had worked with in the past and every person he’d ever dated before Marinette (Adrien isn’t remotely surprised about this), Chloe’s parents, numerous family friends, and several of the Agreste family lawyers. The minutiae of what that information includes isn’t available, obviously, but none of them are actually interested in learning what any of it could possibly be anyway. Kagami isn’t sure who has actually been blackmailed or threatened; she isn’t representing Gabriel himself, after all. Whoever she  _ is _ representing seems to be a supplier of information rather than an active participant in the acts of coercion, and as of yet hasn’t done any snitching...which is particularly irritating for Kagami, because if they actually  _ would _ , Kagami is almost  _ certain  _ her job wouldn’t be so difficult.

Something confusing, though, is that, according to information Kagami has on-hand, Lila’s collection of blackmail material trumps  _ everyone’s,  _ including Gabriel’s. Whatever dirt Lila has and who it’s on isn’t something Kagami or Alya know, but whatever it is, it’s  _ huge.  _

The detail that is perhaps most unsettling, given who all the known associates of the Peacock Ring are, is that Lila looks (on paper) like the least formidable. Sure, she’s a reporter, but she isn’t in law enforcement; she isn’t the CEO of a massive company, or a close associate of Gabriel’s. She’s an entertainment writer. That’s all. She shouldn’t be the scariest one of the bunch, but Kagami is convinced that she  _ is.  _ Alya is disinclined to argue. The more they learn about her, the weirder and scarier Lila seems.

The whole thing is just so crazy.

As Kagami explains what Adrien’s legal obligations to the case are at this point, he flips through a blue, spiral-bound notebook. He stops on a single page, taking in Kagami’s looping handwriting.

“I don’t understand why my father would willingly supply information on me to Lila,” Adrien says, shaking his head. “It makes no sense. He tore me apart for ‘doing’ that interview, seriously. There’s just...no...sane reason he would’ve condoned it, much less orchestrated it.”

“We’re definitely missing something, but that’s what the actual investigations are for,” Kagami says, shrugging. “From what my client has told me, though, it was never your father’s intention for any of this to come back to you at all. And, compared to say, intimidation and police bribery and stuff, your role in this is relatively minor, hence why you haven’t been contacted for more evidence. I think the press may have initially played up your victimization for human interest.”

Alya’s lip curls into a sneer at that, and Marinette hits the floor with her fist. Nino, Luka, and Adrien all simultaneously reach out to placate her, though Nino’s the only one that’s actually close enough to squeeze her shoulder.

“Obviously Max’s info from your phone is enough to prove you were being illegally tracked, but at this point, what that information was being used for, apart from what Lila used in that interview, is unclear.” Kagami shrugs. “I think the only way you’re going to find that out before the actual trial is by  _ asking  _ your father.”

“Or Nathalie,” Adrien says, shaking his head, destitute. 

“She was your personal assistant, right?” Alya presses, and Marinette watches him go very pale.

“I wish she hadn’t been,” is his feeble reply. 

“I don’t think she had any hand in the incidents involving you, Adrien,” Kagami says. “No matter what Max’s phone records might show, I really don’t think that was her. For one thing, she had no idea those apps were on your phone.” Her intensity makes this conjecture seem like fact. “She honestly didn’t.”

“Oh,” Adrien jerks his face away from the notebook to turn very wide eyes at her. “You’re representing her, aren’t you?”

Kagami doesn’t reply. Her silence alone is enough of an answer.

“Thank you,” Adrien says, reaching out to clasp her hands. She blinks at him, emotionless, before she actually smiles. When she does, all of her round teeth show, the apple globes of her cheeks shifting over her sharp cheekbones. 

“Always happy to risk going to prison to help a friend,” she says placidly, squeezing his fingers in her strong, firm grip.

\--

Marinette and Luka bring out the cheeseboard and distribute over-full glasses of cab as Alya and Kagami sort through and put away their mountains of illicit files. Adrien’s gone quite delicate again, all perfect smiles and politeness and straight shoulders, and he’s refusing to touch the food or the wine. He probably wouldn’t look all that upset to anyone that hasn’t seen what he’s like when he’s happy, which kind of makes it all that much worse.

Marinette tugs him down onto the floor next to her, looping an arm around his waist. It’s so hard watching him like this; she wants him to laugh and to smile and to pun and to breathe, but he’s so...he’s so...She has never experienced anything as sad as Adrien being sad. If it weren’t already late at night, surely the sun would’ve poofed out of existence with the gravity of his misery. She wonders if the moon is still hanging in the sky. (It probably isn’t.) 

He leans into her, the wide collar of his snow-white angora sweater slipping over the curve of his shoulder, hand dropping into her lap; she rolls his soft sleeve up, drawing long, lingering strokes down his forearm, running nails over his palm and each finger. Nino replaces him on the sofa, hooking a sneaker around the leg of the coffee table, wrapping both Kagami and Alya up under his broey wings.

“Okay,” Nino says, “so. We can all agree it’s been a shitty few days.”

Murmured assent follows this declaration. 

“I say we keep the bakery closed tomorrow,” he says. “What do you think, Mari? Lose a couple hundred bucks; gain a couple of hours doing something other than developing baker’s asthma?” 

Marinette goes to protest that; Adrien certainly does,  _ not on his behalf, he’s already caused so much drama, _ but then Marinette thinks about it, and...well. She can’t remember having ever closed the bakery, not in all the years since it came under her care; they don’t even close their doors on most major holidays. She...she could take a day. They could take a day off for Adrien.

“Nino,” she says, “I think that sounds  _ amazing. _ ”

Nino winks at her.

“Let’s do something fun,” he says cheerfully.

“Um, not all of us can just  _ not work  _ whenever we want to,” Alya pokes him in the side, so he kisses her cheek.

“I  _ know  _ you’re not going in tomorrow ‘til 3, Alya,” he waggles a finger at her.

Alya hums. “Well. True.”

“I have to be in at nine,” Kagami says, “so obviously I’m down.”

“I’m off tomorrow,” Luka shrugs.

“Cool,” Nino says. “Luka. My man. Go get Twister.”

\--

Adrien watches the mood shift around him, seeing it rather than feeling it, because mostly he’s kind of numb; the way they all perk up like puppies catching the sound of kibble rattling.

Luka grins a grin so cheesy, he does Chat Noir himself proud. “Is it in the usual place?” he asks, pushing onto his feet with crackling joints. Marinette nods to him as he wobbles slightly on sleep-sparking legs. “Oof, I may have to be the spinner tonight, kids.” Nevertheless, he trots happily over to the linen cupboard, retrieving a big, unmarked white box.

“No,” Kagami says, and there is a dangerous light in her eyes. “I am  _ always  _ the spinner. Besides, you probably need to stretch.”

“Twister?” Adrien surveys the group. The barest hint of interest peppers the question. “What, like the children’s game?”

“Not the way we do it,” Alya says with a wink, and Marinette beams at her, trying to get in the spirit of the thing. She smiles encouragingly at Adrien next, squeezing his thigh.

Kagami follows Alya’s lead, and she--she  _ winks  _ at Adrien. Hmm, that isn’t something he thought he’d ever see; Kagami winking. “Prepare yourself for the most sadistic game you’ve ever played.”

Adrien blinks down at the emptiness of the coffee table. He really isn’t up to anything apart from maybe hiding under Marinette’s duvet and never ever resurfacing. “You guys enjoy yourselves. I think I’m going to head upst--”

A large, tattooed, chipped-polished hand clamps down on his shoulder. Holy moly, Luka’s got cold hands. Somehow, though, that isn’t a bad thing; it’s...refreshing. Adrien’s senses are flooded with artemisia, incense, concentrated pipe tobacco, the barest hint of expensive marijuana, and the cool, sharp sting of metal; probably from his guitar strings. Adrien wonders if smelling amazing is a prerequisite for being allowed into this group.

“Stay,” says Luka, giving him one soft pat, before he nods at Kagami to help him move the coffee table out of the way.

“Seriously, this game is just one big old dopamine dump. It’ll be good for you, man,” Nino says blithely. He and Alya begin pushing the sofa back. Marinette pulls Adrien to his feet with an easy tug; he turns to meet her gaze. She looks so hopeful, all big, sparkling eyes and pink pout.

“Okay,” he shrugs. “I’m just warning you all now…” he takes a steadying breath. “I  _ will  _ win.”

They all titter at that, except for Marinette, who presses a grateful little kiss to the curve of his shoulder.

\--

Kagami upends the box, and the first thing Adrien notices is that the game spinner is missing. There is only the mat, a roll of tape, and, oddly, a huge tangle of what he thinks for a moment are...yep. Handcuffs.

“Why--” Adrien starts.

“You’ll see,” Marinette says.

Adrien blinks, wondering what the hell he’s agreed to.

Luka grabs the mat, and Adrien helps him lay it out. They use the tape to secure the mat to the floor, because apparently they will need it, and then Kagami instructs them all to take their sides.

The next thing Adrien realizes is that the mat has been modified with acrylic paint. The circles are  _ tiny,  _ and there are like a hundred of them; at least twenty more than would be found on a regular Twister grid. The colors splash across it willy-nilly; gone are the rows of primary green-yellow-blue-red, replaced with random colors all over the place: purple, a single black circle, lime green, blinding acidic orange, hot pink, cerulean, highlighter lemon, deep wine red.

“Okay,” Kagami rubs her hands together. “Rules of the game are this: I call out whichever color I want. You put the limb I assign to you on that color. If you land on the same spot as another person...you both get the cuffs. You slip, you’re out ‘til the next round. The only way to get out of the cuffs is if the person you’re cuffed to slips. Any slip deemed to be made on purpose--a.k.a. cowardly surrender--will result in a penalty of two drinks. I might pull out the hard stuff; we’ll see. Depends on how badly I want you to fall over.” She points to the liquor cabinet. “Any time I call red, you are required to drink wine.” She holds up the bottle. “I will pass the bottle around. You are not allowed to touch the bottle. You must drink until I allow you to stop. You touch the bottle, or spit it on anyone because you’re laughing too hard,  _ Marinette,  _ you are required to take three more drinks, if I remember to enforce the rule. DO NOT TOUCH THE BOTTLE. If you win, you are REQUIRED to take up the mantle of spinner on the next round. If, as the spinner, you screw up a rule, you forfeit your right to your position as spinner, and you must return to the battlefield. The replacement spinner will be the first person to call out the mistake.”

“Holy crap, what  _ is  _ this?” Adrien murmurs.

“Sadism, bro,” Nino says cheerfully.

“Apparently.”

“Right,” Kagami says, as Adrien frantically scans the board for colors, trying to memorize where they are placed. Kagami chuckles low in her throat. Marinette giggles to herself where she stands at Adrien’s side. Alya grins ferociously at all of them. Luka yawns. Nino rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck.

“Left hand purple!”

Adrien has chosen his spot well. He is directly in front of a relevant circle. He drops--and two seconds later Marinette’s hand slaps down on top of his own.

“Marinette, there was a purple spot right next to you,” Kagami groans.

Nino echoes her. “Marinette,  _ no.  _ Not this again. We know what you’re doing.”

“There are far less complicated ways to get me into a pair of these,” Adrien gripes at her, and Marinette grins up at him, eyes twinkling. 

“And  _ again,  _ Nino is the one trying to get in our way,” she sing-songs.

Nino very nearly takes his hand off his spot in the throws of his complete indignation. “Excuse me, MARI, I don’t recall seeing a  _ sock  _ hung on any  _ doorknobs  _ at any point since you two got together!”

“You know I hate socks,” Marinette sniffs imperiously. “I prefer stockings.”

“Marinette--” Adrien swallows, acutely aware that Alya and Luka have become deeply interested in their exchange, but that’s when Kagami slaps the cuffs onto them, snickering at the absolute disbelief blossoming on Adrien’s face. At least this pair is lightly padded. Not all of them are.

“At least it isn’t me keeping you apart this time.” Kagami is quite pleased with herself, ruffling both of their scalps with her sharp, dangerous nails.

Adrien dignifies none of that with any kind of reply, though he can’t quite help but blush a bit at the playful little hipcheck that his very, very red little Marinette gives him.

Luka, Alya, and Nino are fairly well spread out; everyone is crouching. Adrien is the only one who isn’t wearing something akin to a rabid grin, because he’s still a bit surprised that Marinette had so openly innuendoed at him in front of the group, and that they are  _ playing Twister with handcuffs,  _ what the actual fuck.

He is starting to feel relatively human again, though.

“Left hand green!” Kagami declares, and suddenly Adrien is being yanked with such force to the other side of the board that he nearly falls over from shock. Marinette cackles gleefully; she’d somehow managed to leap-frog  _ over his back  _ as she went for a spot clear on the other side of the mat.

She is so freaking strong.

Adrien realizes, horrified, that both of their hands are now squashing Luka’s solidly to the floor.

“Marinette!” Luka, Alya, and Nino groan.

“All is fair in love and Twister,” she says cheerfully, as Kagami handcuffs her’s and Luka’s wrists together. 

Adrien is more grateful for his extremely long limbs and decent balance than he has ever been. “This is  _ not  _ Twister.”

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ cuff all of us together again, you crazy!” Alya roars from where Adrien and Marinette had been crouching just seconds before.

“Hee hee hee,” is Marinette’s response.

“Remember Christmas of ‘16?” Nino is overcome with Lieutenant Dan-status hauntedness, staring somewhere into the bleak abyss of his own memory.

“I remember kneecaps,” Luka says, in the same quavering tone. “Kneecaps for days.”

“Kneecaps in ribs, kneecaps in foreheads,” Alya shakes her head.

“Kneecaps in places kneecaps should never be,” Kagami agrees.

“Why kneecaps?” Adrien asks, though he probably shouldn’t have.

“Marinette is a well-known snowballer,” Alya smirks. “That was the time eight of us were cuffed together, and Ivan practically dislocated his shoulder.”

“Why are we playing this game?” Adrien mutters, though he can’t say with any kind of honesty that he minds the sudden barrage of physical contact, or the chance to stretch out his house-arrest tight muscles, or, most importantly, the chance to think about something other than his father.

“Enough chatter. Speaking of kneecaps, right knee pink!” Kagami shouts. 

“Right  _ knee? _ ” Adrien watches them all move, feeling dumb. Yep; they’re using their knees alright.

“Alya,  _ NO,”  _ Nino shouts, just as she goes to drop onto the same place Marinette’s aiming for. Alya gasps, darting her leg sideways without a nanosecond to spare, and now she’s arched on her side, slung diagonally across the center of the mat.

“Damn,” Marinette says.

“Why would you  _ want  _ to wind up with everyone cuffed to you?” Adrien cries, crunched up in a little ball; he is currently planted on the spot directly next to where he’s cuffed to Luka and Marinette. The combination of Marinette’s gorgeous work-heavy scent and Luka’s cologne is starting to go to his head.

“Left foot orange!” Is Kagami’s next command, and everyone moves so quickly and with such violence that Adrien can’t actually see where an unoccupied, corresponding spot is.

“Come on, Agreste, hurry up. Don’t make us impose time limits on circle-grabbing,” Kagami says, and he groans. The only available orange circle is halfway across the board, tucked under Nino’s curving back. Alya blocks his access; she’s now bent forward, orange foot planted under her chest, pink knee stuck out at an angle. 

“Alya, move like twelve centimeters to your left,” Adrien says, and Marinette’s fingers wiggle against his knuckles.

“Warning people makes it less likely that you’ll knock them over,” Marinette says.

“Well, I don’t want to knock anyone over yet--”

“Dude, that’s my guitar playing hand,” Luka says, not unkindly, though with marked urgency. “Stop smashing it. We’re both wearing rings.”

“Sorry,” Adrien says, scooching his palm sideways, reaching tentatively forward with his foot, trying not to hit Alya’s thigh with his toes.

“You’re allowed to touch us, Adrien,” Marinette says gently. “We do bite, but not  _ too  _ hard.”

Adrien flashes a look at her, eyebrows raising, but then--

“Adrien, if you don’t get that spot  _ now,  _ you’re taking a drink!” Kagami snaps. “3, 2--” 

“Agh!” Adrien cries, panicking, kicking his leg up and over Alya for  _ no reason. _

_ Why didn’t he just take the drink?!! _

_ “Adrien! _ ” Alya cries, laughing heartily, nearly falling, as Adrien scrabbles for the spot with his big toe, crook of his knee tight over Alya’s hips as Nino sucks his stomach in above his shin.

“Am I on it?!!” Adrien yells, as everyone starts shouting at the same time. 

He’s on it. 

A few more moves pass uneventfully, until--

Adrien’s left leg is stretched across three bodies now, thigh squished up against Marinette’s left buttcheek.

“Left hand purple!” Kagami orders, and this is followed by a laugh so evil Ursula the Sea Witch couldn’t outdo it. 

It’s coming from Marinette--his sweet, wonderful,  _ terrible  _ Marinette--

“What?!!” Luka and Adrien cry, and they are both thrown sideways as Marinette launches them smack into the center of the board.

“NO!” Nino, Alya, and Luka rage at the same time.

“How did you do this AGAIN?!!” Nino moans. “Marinette, you are  _ terrible! _ ”

“I am doing the splits,” Luka says, with some urgency. “I AM DOING THE SPLITS. WHY AM I DOING THE SPLITS. God Agreste, I wish I had your legs--”

“Put your knee back down, Luka. The only reason I’m not penalizing you is because you’re too hot not to play, and I am voyeur,” Kagami says.

“But my  _ elbow-- _ ” Luka moans. “Marinette, why do you do these things?”

Marinette starts trembling, because she’s giggling so hard.

“Kagami is WORSE!” Alya says. “Oh my god,  _ Marinette-- _ you’d better not knock all of us down--”

“I am a strategic MASTERMIND,” Marinette twinkles cheerfully at all of them, even though it looks, indeed, like she’s two seconds from falling over. “Kagami! Cuff us up!” 

Everyone groans as Kagami does just that.

Marinette’s arm is like some sort of harshly reddening maypole, and Adrien is staring at the stack of metal rings over her wrist when suddenly  _ another  _ pair of handcuffs is connecting him to Alya, and another to Nino.

“What, why?!!” he protests.

“You’re on the same spot, aren’t you?”

“You didn’t cuff me to Adrien earlier,” Luka protests, and Kagami shrugs. 

“I made a mistake, but you can’t call it retroactively.  _ Sorrrrrrrrrrryyyyyy! _ ”

“Stop letting Luka get away with stuff, woman!” Nino wails.

Adrien grunts. “This game is so confusing.”

“Right hand yellow,” Kagami ignores him, this latest dictation a harsh little whisper, before darting away from their tentacled mass.

Adrien’s calf is beginning to shake because everyone--every single last one of them--is now braced on his leg. “Um--” he groans. “Um--guys--”

Marinette laughs, wobbles, and winds up with her boobs squashed against Adrien’s face.

His reaction is instantaneous, tingly and good and warm, and  _ mortifying. _

“Hnnnggg,” Adrien goes, losing his footing, and then, “Oh fuck,” says Luka, all of a sudden Adrien’s leg isn’t supporting him or anyone else anymore. Somehow Luka’s upper body has wound into a serpentine ribbon; the cufflinks between his arm and Marinette’s are twisted, and his anchoring elbow buckles under him.

“NO!” Alya roars, and the whole human ball crumples in on itself.

“MARINETTE!” everyone yells, and Marinette laughs joyfully where she’s now crushed against Adrien’s chest, shoulder in his throat.

“Puppy pile!” she says, and Adrien can’t help but burst out a tightly compressed laugh. She gives him the best no-armed hug she can manage, which basically means she’s doing a great job crushing all of his organs, smooshing her torso into him with all her might.

...and by god, he loves it.

“RIGHT,” Kagami says, stomping over to them in her white wedges, dropping into a squat with the wine bottle in-hand. “Drinks. You are ALL penalized.”

“How is this  _ our  _ fault, Tsurugi?!!” Nino snarls.

Kagami is not a sympathetic spinner. “Insolent Boy,  _ you are all well aware  _ of Marinette’s dirty tactics. Adjust your strategy accordingly, or suffer the consequences.”

“I think I’m dead, if that’s enough of a consequence for you,” is Luka’s contribution.

“Not  _ you,  _ Luka, darling. That’s why I go easy on you, because you’re perfect and lovely. You’re  _ so _ flexible, but those joints of yours...” Luka looks a bit put-out by that; Kagami bends down to drag their lips together slow and pretty where he’s twisted up in Alya’s legs and Nino’s arms, but then--

Adrien has barely had a chance to catch his breath when glass is clacking against his front teeth. Kagami’s managed to kiss her husband  _ and  _ shove wine in Adrien’s face almost simultaneously. He swallows down as much as he can; Marinette’s hair spilling across his chest and Adam's apple and  _ face  _ is the only thing keeping cab from ruining  _ yet another  _ piece of ridiculously expensive clothing.

This-- _ this  _ is why he keeps stealing Marinette’s junk jumpers.

Kagami passes the wine to Marinette next, and the flex of her throat as she takes it down centimeters away from his face makes Adrien have to shut his eyes, because the pile is embarrassing enough without his...responses to her, no matter how nice it is to have the instant endorphin rush.

“Can I be spinner now?” Luka grumps, and Kagami laughs at him.

“No,” she says, as she gives Nino an unfairly quick swig.

“Kagami, hurry up,” comes Alya’s muffled voice from somewhere in the pile. “Both of my feet are falling asleep, and Nino’s ass is on my face.”  
“I’m sorry, Lyly--”

“Patience.” Kagami moves on to Luka, who drinks like he’s spent the last month lost in the Sahara.

“WHAT IS MY LIFE?” Nino roars, because Alya’s just bitten him. “Babe, not  _ here;  _ Jesus--”

Marinette is laughing helplessly against Adrien, and the vibrations of it send little sparks of pleasure up and down Adrien’s abused spine.

“Marinette, I am going to  _ get you  _ next round,” Alya says coldly, craning her neck to reach the wine bottle, now that it is clear of Nino’s body.

It’s an empty threat, and Adrien knows it; Marinette isn’t messing around with this game. She’s a  _ demon.  _ How the hell her coordination is suddenly so amazing is one of life’s great mysteries.

...actually, thinking about it, Marinette is fairly steady on her feet when she isn’t freaking out about something. It’s just that usually she  _ is. _

Detangling themselves is a whole incident in and of itself, because with Marinette still connecting them all, they have to navigate around her. Adrien is the last one to straighten himself out, and he’s so keyed up that he’s ready to take them all down again himself, just to  _ escape _ . 

He’s too competitive to just give up playing, though.

“Okay, everyone,” Kagami says, once they’re all standing in a star formation, linked hands taut where they hover over the center of the mat. “Left foot yellow.”

That’s easy enough.

“Left hand orange.”

This is where things get dumb again--they are all connected by the left arm after all--and everyone begins tugging each other in opposite directions, trying to nab the most advantageous positions for themselves. Adrien’s the one who wins out in the end--he  _ is  _ the one with a team of actual Hollywood superhero private trainers and all--but he realizes he miscalculated terribly when he ends up in a half-cartwheel with Marinette’s face in his crotch, Luka’s back pressed up against his spine, Alya’s hair in his upside-down face, and Nino--

Oops. Nino slips, falling flat on his stomach.

“Oh thank GOD,” Nino roars. “I can’t believe I suggested this. What was I thinking?”

“That Marinette wouldn’t lose her mind, maybe?” Alya scowls.

“This is all carefully calculated, Alya,” Marinette insists.

“In what universe does this count as careful calculation?”

Kagami uncuffs Nino, and he slips off to the kitchen to crack open a nice, medicinal bottle of Jameson.

“Right foot pink!” Kagami says. 

Everyone else laughs as Luka yells, “YES, YES, THANK YOU!” and folds himself into a relatively comfortable one-handed downward dog. Adrien’s too busy staring at Marinette.

“Oh crap,” he says, watching Marinette extend her foot to the spot he’d been planning on grabbing. The cuff twists painfully against his arm, biting into his skin, and Marinette looks up at him through her fringe, eyes dark, cheeks going pink--she’s stretched with their connected arm on the spot to his right, one knee folded to her chest, the other leg long and tight where her pink-nailed toes blend into the plastic, and the position does amazing things to the curve of her tailbone, the swell of her as--

“ADRIEN,” Kagami snarls. “STOP STALLING THE GAME.”

“Seriously, man, that’s just obscene,” Nino says, eyes glittering. “Wipe away the drool with your free hand, come on now.”

“He’s not  _ drooling,  _ Nino,” Marinette says. 

“Pretty sure he’s simping,” Alya grins.

“I--uh--sorry,” Adrien gulps, face flaming, trying to scope out another pink circle that won’t have him twisting himself into a more compromising position.

“What, no pun?” Marinette asks, pouting. “I’m waiting for puns.”

“I’m concentrating,” he says, because if he starts bantering with Marinette, his overheated body is literally going to explode. He continues to hunt for a place to put his stupid foot that isn’t currently occupied by everyone else.

There isn’t one. He’s going to have to step over Marinette. He’s going to have to fold himself both under Luka’s side and  _ through  _ his legs; like a troll with its bridge,  _ ugh _ ...these damned handcuffs...At least Alya is safe; she’s arced sideways, all of her weight on their connected arm, though he can see her shoulder beginning to tremble.

“Sorry,” Adrien says to Marinette, as he tries to maneuver his pelvis around her face and shoulders without smacking the back of his head straight into Luka’s crotch, folding and dropping into a sort of modified side-crow pose, twisting his calf around Luka’s far-flung foot to take the adjacent spot. Now he’s bent at the waist, chest to Marinette’s back, half-straddling her, as Luka arches above them like a human canopy.

“Oh well, maybe we can find Chat Space later, then,” Marinette says wistfully, before she catches herself, laughing wildly.

Adrien cannot  _ believe  _ his face is capable of going so red. 

“Speaking of Chat Space...holy shit, Adrien, how are you doing that?” Alya demands, arching her neck to take in his form. “That’s not fair. We’re mere mortals playing Twisted Twister against fucking Chat Noir. Human legs shouldn’t be able to bend that way.”

“What way?” he blinks at her.

Marinette’s gaze runs from one foot to the other, surveying his legs, and she licks her lips unconsciously, front teeth catching the tip as she meets his eyes. 

“That way,” she says, a smile curling her lips.

The universe is so unjust. 

“ _ You _ all thought this was an amazing idea! I’m innocent! I have no idea what is  _ happening  _ right now!” 

Marinette’s forearm grazes Adrien’s inner thigh, distracting him, and he gasps, shivering. She leans back into him, making contact with all of the right places, head tipping onto his shoulder.

She sighs happily, and his consternation is forgotten. He might be contorted into a _perfectly reasonable_ knot at the moment, but god, it feels nice. He presses back, finding a comfortable center of gravity, and he turns his ear to rest his cheek against the back of her neck.

Okay. Maybe it isn’t  _ that  _ unjust.

“You two, I had no idea this was a team sport,” Luka says softly, and when Adrien looks up at him, where they are now almost nose-to-nose, his upside-down expression is very warm.

“Luka, stop perving without me,” Kagami says. 

“Kagami, I am  _ not  _ doing that; I can appreciate a nice romantic moment between two extremely attractive people without being weird about it. Unlike a certain someone.”

Alya nods placidly. “Seriously, Luka, stop flirting, we all know what you’re doing. You have an unfair proximity-advantage.”

“I’m sorry, you two,” Luka sighs, and this is directed to Adrien and Marinette, “I’m not being gross--”

“Chill, bro. They know they’re hot,” Nino says offhandedly, popping a grape into Alya’s mouth. “Thanks for reminding me why I suggested this stupid game.”

The laughter that explodes from Adrien’s throat is synchronised with Marinette’s own.

Luka rolls his eyes, but now he’s grinning softly at the pair of them, and he says, completely dead-serious, “Fine. I’ll own it. I love love.”

Skies above, no wonder Marinette  _ and  _ Kagami married this guy. He probably gives Harry Styles a run for all of his several bajillion dollars when he sings ballads. What a  _ line. _

Adrien’s heart twists, and he feels Marinette giggling against him, which turns him on so instantaneously and  _ so badly _ he can’t stop his hips from stuttering involuntarily where Marinette’s heat penetrates his trousers, so of course Kagami groans, “Oh my god,  _ enough,  _ all of you.  _ Behave. _ ” Adrien can’t see her, but she sounds fond, and also kind of breathless. “Right hand red.”

“How  _ dare you, _ ” Alya cries, because the only red spot close enough to reach for  _ any of them,  _ connected as they are, is under Marinette’s knee. This will make Alya’s position extremely difficult, and it means they will  _ all  _ be cuffed by both hands now.

“Oh  _ noooooooooooooooooooooo _ , but I’m  _ balanced, _ ” Marinette moans, even though  _ this is all her fault, _ but she very deftly maneuvers herself away from Adrien and back, shoulder blades scraping him as she goes.

He immediately misses the pleasant pressure of her.

“Oh lord,” says Luka, because he knows there is no safe place for him to go without squishing Adrien completely. “Sorry Adrien.”

If Adrien doesn’t think of something, he’s basically going to have to lay on top of Marinette and Alya, and Luka will have to--what the hell will Luka even do? Crush them all into the floor; that’s his only option, and then they’ll probably all fall over like they had before.

Hmmmmmmmm.

Marinette is curled in on herself, save for her stray leg, which juts like the stick of a lollipop behind her. Adrien has no idea how Luka is going to get under there from his position, but then it dawns on him in brilliant clarity. He directs Luka not to move. He’s going to create more space for everyone.

It’s going to be difficult to hold, but he can manage it. 

He bends his spine back at the waist as far as he can go without actually lying down, like a limbo dancer, shifting all of his weight onto his folded left leg, extending the stretch through his right, careful to keep the edge of his foot on the pink spot, before he very gently folds his torso to the right, sliding his arm under his thigh. Groping blindly to find Marinette’s knee and Alya’s pinkie, he eventually latches onto Marinette’s wrist with his index finger to steady himself, keeping the edge of his hand on the mat. His pelvis is bridged just slightly enough to keep him from touching the floor, shoulders held aloft by all of the force of his poor, abused core, but he’s not going to be able to maintain this for very long.

Everyone freaks out.

“Holy SHIT,” Nino roars, as Marinette, Nino, Kagami, and Alya all stare wide-eyed down at him. 

“GO LUKA,” Adrien groans, abdominal muscles already beginning to rage against him. “Go, go! Get to the circle!”

Luka springs into action, bending forward so that he’s crouching over Adrien, the rigid denim of his torn jeans pocket digging into Adrien’s stomach.   
“Thanks, Adrien,” says Luka, and Adrien shouts, “KAGAMI. HURRY UP WITH THE HANDCUFFS.”

“How are you  _ doing that?!! _ Do you have  _ bones,  _ dude?” This is Nino. “Do you give lessons?!!”

“Luka, do  _ not  _ move,” Adrien hisses. “Hold yourself up if you can.”

“I’m trying, man--I am so out of  _ shape-- _ ”

“ _ Kagami _ ,” Adrien begs again, because he’s really going to fall.

“ _ Wow, _ ” Marinette murmurs, peering down at him from around Luka’s chest, and it’s so breathy and low, Adrien almost loses his concentration.

Metal closes around his wrist, but then--oh god, he’s on  _ red, _ there’s the bottle again; he’d forgotten the wine rule. 

Kagami takes one look at his upside-down face, and grants mercy upon him. 

“Okay okay, you can move first, and then you drink,” Kagami says hastily; she doesn’t want to drown him, after all. “Right foot blue!”

Luka is gone in half a nanosecond, giving a little hop that nearly makes them all lose their shared place on the orange spot.

Adrien has no fucking clue where a blue circle is; everyone looks vaguely panicked now, even Marinette, and especially Alya, who is three seconds from flace planting straight into Marinette’s lap. She kicks wildly at a blue spot somewhere in front of her, but before she can manage, her orange-spot wrist buckles and she falls.

“Damnit!” she roars, trying to pull herself off Marinette before she takes her down too.

Marinette isn’t too badly positioned though; she seems like she  _ never  _ is, like the spots are always exactly where she wants them to be.

Adrien is still trying to find blue; he tilts his head forward just slightly, now that Luka is no longer blocking his view, and he’s relieved to find there’s a blue circle that isn’t completely unreachable. Alya should’ve gone for that one, though it might’ve been a bit  _ too  _ close, if Alya’s got tight thigh muscles.

Adrien slowly extricates his hooked right leg from around Luka’s ankle, pointing his toes, tucking his foot under Marinette’s arm in a nice, fluid motion, and he plants his heel on that blessed blue circle, anchoring his body again. His stomach muscles soften themselves out as he exhales, all of the tension releasing from his neck and shoulders. He curls himself upright again, hair falling back over his forehead, sighing in relief as he leans into his crouch. 

When he opens his eyes, Marinette leans forward, hands still grounded on the mat, and kisses him hard on the mouth, even with everyone watching.

“Oh,” he breathes when she pulls away, slightly surprised. “Hi.”

She presses her forehead to his cheek. “Hi,” she says.

He realizes everyone has gone very quiet, and they’re all staring at them again.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my  _ life, _ ” Alya says where she’s still crashed next to the mat, bright hazel eyes wide on her face. She’s fanning herself. “I mean, it was also like, contortionist-level weird, but. Damn.”

“What?” Adrien blinks at her; he wasn’t paying any attention at all to what he must’ve looked like. 

When he turns his face to look at Marinette, she’s blushing so intensely she looks like she’s sunburnt, and her pulse is so thunderously fast he can feel it fluttering under her hot skin where their wrists are connected. 

“What did I do?” Adrien laughs lightly.

“Like, besides dislocating your hips?” Kagami says. “And that stripper sit-up, or whatever that was? And the fact that you’re wearing Marinette’s lipgloss now?”

“I don’t think they have a name for that, dude,” Nino says, and even he’s looking a bit affected.

“That must be quite useful for you...professionally.” Luka says, and he flits a glance at the top of Marinette’s head, before his smile goes deeply,  _ deeply  _ suggestive, which is hilarious, considering that he’s still draped sideways and partially upside-down, since they’re still handcuffed together. “They do say cats have extremely flexible spines.”

Adrien feels the smirk curling his mouth. “It  _ is  _ useful _ ,”  _ he says, mock-thoughtfully, “ _ professionally _ .”

“Heh heh, yeah,” Marinette goes, all throaty and doofy, which makes Adrien...feel things.

“Oh my god,  _ stop, _ ” Kagami moans, shoving the neck of the wine bottle into Luka’s mouth. He laughs around it, spraying a bit from the corners of his lips, because his face is  _ upside down,  _ and Adrien worries they might’ve upset her, but from the angle of her hips, and how she’s clutching Luka’s waist, and the way her tongue darts out to catch a stray droplet of wine from his chin, if she’s flustered, it certainly isn’t from anger or jealousy. Adrien actually has to look away, because everyone is still very close together and...Adrien’s not particularly shy about stuff like this, obviously, but...well.

When he looks back at Marinette, about to quip at her next, the words die on his lips.

Marinette doesn’t look lustful so much as she looks like her entire soul has shifted in her body.

“Oof,” goes Adrien.

“I am  _ so disappointed  _ I’m not handcuffed to you guys anymore,” Alya laughs. “Any of you.”

Nino plops down beside her, and she immediately crawls into the criss-cross of his legs. He promptly cuffs her to himself.

Adrien has never, in all of his life, felt more of a himbo than he does right now, staring at Marinette staring at  _ him  _ while all of them stare at  _ both of them,  _ and finding that he relishes it _. _

Marinette gets the wine bottle next, but she’s still goggling at Adrien with such intensity that she doesn’t notice until Kagami taps her cheek with it. The little gasping  _ oh, heehee!  _ she makes is so cute that Adrien knows, he  _ knows,  _ he is definitely embarrassing himself now.

“Okay, sinners,” Kagami says, clearing her throat. “Right elbow green.”

“What?!!” Adrien gasps, and immediately his lust is replaced with complete, utter peevishness. “ _ Elbow? HOW?  _ OUR ARMS ARE CUFFED TOGETHER.”

“Make it work.” is Kagami’s only suggestion.

Marinette is the first one to move as always, but this is when something odd happens. Just as she’s about to plant them on a circle, she blinks very slowly at Adrien, just once, before she arcs the hand that links all of them up and over her head  _ in the opposite direction _ , tugging both Adrien and Luka for a sharp half-twist that loops their arms over her torso.

“ACK!” goes Luka, because he’s the furthest away from wherever Marinette’s going, and he’s still blanketing them both, and he goes down like a rock tossed carelessly off a cliff. His fall pushes Adrien into Marinette’s chest, his chin colliding hard with her forehead, and it is only by some miracle of superhuman baker strength and resilience that Marinette herself doesn’t wind up flat on her back. She’s so well-braced, in fact, that when Luka squashes Adrien into her, she’s the only thing keeping Adrien upright.  
“Got you, kitty,” she murmurs, and Adrien very nearly loses it.

“Ah crap,” Luka sighs, where his cheek is crumpled against Adrien’s hip. “My elbow’s done. Okay, Kagami, you got me.”

“HA-HA, yes, I did,” Kagami roars. “Come here, you. No fair the Disney couple gets all the fun.” 

“Uncuff me first,  _ you. _ ” Adrien can hear Luka’s grin, and he wonders if maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ Luka had fallen on purpose.

Adrien probably would’ve done the same thing, if his partner had looked at him the way Kagami was a few seconds ago, because being that far away from someone who wanted to  _ lick wine  _ off his face, well...

...Marinette is definitely looking at him like something now _ ,  _ and he wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else but handcuffed to her, although it’d probably be more convenient if they were someplace private.

“Um,” says Adrien, gulping as pure fire sparks in Marinette’s usually sweet bluebell eyes.

“And then there were two,” Kagami says, successfully retrieving her wayward romantic of a crackly-jointed husband, wrapping herself around him like Christmas paper.

Adrien has no time to register anything happening outside of his bakery girl, though.

“You’re going down, Agreste,” Marinette says softly.

“I wish I was,” he says back, because all of the blood that should be in his brain has been redirected to less thoughtful body parts.  
“Puns!” she gasps, delighted.

“No, Princess, that was a pick-up line, plain and simple.”

“I’ll pick  _ you  _ up.”

“I’ll lay you down.”

“I dare you to try.” She pushes up into him, lips at his ear, grazing his skin as she hisses. “I’m going to win,  _ chaton, _ and I’m going to be spinner. I’m going to tie you in knots so bad you won’t know where your hair starts and your toes end. Then I’m going to--”

“MARINETTE,” Alya, Nino, Kagami, and even Luka all snap at the same time, because apparently  _ this  _ is where they finally draw the line. 

“Sorry!” she says brightly, like she wasn’t just brazenly seducing him in clear view of everyone in the damn world.

...well, okay. Just their friends. But still.

“Every single one of you needs to get a room,” Nino declares. Then, more adamantly, “I need to get a room. Let’s all go get rooms.”

“But then we’d miss everything!” Alya insists.

Adrien sits there with his chemical neurons faded into a goop of hormone-nothingness like he’s a slutty USC fratboy all over again.

“Right hand pink!” Alya yells, and Adrienette are so caught up in their stare-down neither of them realize it wasn’t Kagami who’d said it. 

Marinette goes to pick a spot she wants, but Adrien’s having _none_ of that. If Marinette wants to be competitive, like _brutally,_ attractively competitive, he can play that way, too. He’s stronger--well, he’s...pretty sure he’s stronger; he probably shouldn’t trust himself against the macaron-whisking side of her body, honestly--so when she starts moving to the right, he directs them even further, gunning for the far corner, causing Marinette to _eep!_ as her arms are stretched further apart than she was expecting.

“My shoulders!” she wails, straining to keep the tip of her middle finger on that damned orange circle.

“Mwahahhahahaha!” Okay, so Adrien might not actually be stronger than her--not by much, anyway--but he’s definitely longer.

“Left foot yellow!” It’s Nino this time; when Marinette growls at him, because at least their legs are free, Adrien  _ giggles.  _ He rotates his hips, trapping her between his far-flung shins, just as she manages to slip her foot under his right armpit. She’s spread widely now; he’s hanging above her, hip to her belly button, and he sees her jaw clench as she tries to keep herself anchored off the floor. 

“Left--ack,  _ Kagami-- _ ” this is Luka, though it sounds like he’s got something in his mouth; Adrien can’t see what he’s doing. “Left hand green!”

Adrien visualizes the board in his head for three seconds as Marinette strategizes under him. Ah- _ ha.  _ It comes to him in a flash, and he throws both of his hands up and over his side. Marinette roars in frustration as he turns his torso under her, planting his hand directly under his own back, so that she has to flip onto her  _ own  _ back on top of him, shoulder blades ground into his ribs, her hair in his eyes and nose and mouth. Her legs nearly aren’t long enough to compensate for the angle; she shocks him by grinding her backside straight into his crotch, forcing him to dip his hips back down toward the floor, pushing against him with all of the weight she can apply.

Oh, dear.

He groans, because of obvious reasons, but also because they are at an impasse--if he bucks up against her, he could push her back off of him, but there are two issues with that: first of all, if he does that, he risks moving one of his feet, which, given that his legs are criss-crossed over each other, is likely, and second of all, because if he bounces her too hard, and she loses her bracing arm, because they are still cuffed, it’s likely she’ll be able to drag him down with her, because he knows  _ she  _ knows how to use those cuffs to her advantage. 

He lets her have this one.

Also...he kind of wants her to stay exactly where she is for as long as she can.

“Right hand red,” says Kagami breathlessly, while Nino goes, “Oh  _ come on  _ you guys,” and Alya throws ten euro at them, and Marinette--

\--holy crap, Marinette rips Adrien’s hand out from under him, managing to untwist herself from the roll she’s in without compromising her footing, twisting with ballet-adeptness on the tips of her bracing toes so that her feet never leave their circles, and she loops under him to plant their right hands on the spot that had been under Adrien’s head. 

Now he’s arched over her again in a plank, and Adrien realizes he’s lifted one of his feet off the ground. 

“Penalty!” Kagami roars. “Penalty, Agreste. Double drinks for red circles and brazen lifting of feet.”

“Were you a wrestler in high school?!! What  _ are  _ you?!!” Adrien blurts out, staring down at Marinette’s determined little face, her forehead sparkling with the barest twinkle of sweat, pupils narrow and intense. 

“Lycee, Captain America,” she says, chest heaving up and  _ through him _ , “and no.”

Hot damn, Adrien wants to smash her into the floor and devour her.

Alya is the one administering drinks now--when Adrien and Marinette turn to see why Kagami’s not doing it, they find her very placidly massaging Luka’s elbow, which is less racy than what Adrien thought they might be doing. 

“Luka, are you okay?” Marinette asks, momentarily forgetting the game, and Adrien smiles at her abrupt change of focus, and the concern in her tone.

“Left foot black,” Luka says placidly, finishing off the wine straight from the bottle.

Alya tips stinging, cheap whiskey into their mouths. Adrien shudders when he swallows, because it burns. He likes the burn, even though the taste makes him want to cry. 

“You heard the man,” Alya says, and they both realize, with dawning horror, that Luka’s just made the game a hell of a lot harder.

“Cuff ‘em, Nino, you’re the closest,” Kagami says, as Adrien and Marinette push themselves into twin splits, anchored by their arms. They are in equally advantageous positions--Adrien is further away from the black spot, but Marinette’s far more petite.

As Nino slides fuzzy green handcuffs around their ankles, Adrien watches the wheels in Marinette’s head spin.

“Mmmmmmmmm, right knee--heh heh,” goes Nino, stroking his chin. “No. Right elbow pink.”

Adrien gasps--and suddenly he’s arching backwards again, with Marinette’s arm curled around his waist like a vine. 

“Oh god!” he cries, as Marinette plants her elbow directly under his backside, jolting him forward into her muscular tricep.

All of her weight is now resting on his outstretched knee. Marinette has just leveled the playing field for herself: not only has be been forced into a twist, just to be able to connect his elbow to that spot beneath him without touching his hip to the floor, he has to keep his leg supported with her on top of it; his other foot is on that single black spot in the corner, and he’s twisted at such an angle that keeping his hand on the spot it occupied previously is incredibly difficult without pushing his arm so far out that it dislocates his shoulder.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAahhhhh, MARINETTE,” he roars, and she cackles merrily.

“Marinette always wins the first round of Twisted Twister,” Kagami says grumpily.

Adrien takes a few seconds to strategize--if he can get their cuffed foot to a spot far away enough that he can out-length her, he’ll be able to pull a fast one on her. That’s reliant on which position they’re given next, of course--

“Right hand blue,” says Alya, before chuckling. “Good luck, Adrien.”

Marinette is already moving before Adrien begins registering what she said, so he instinctively moves in the opposite direction. Man, if only he knew the stupid board...

He hadn’t planned this, though, and Marinette certainly hadn’t either; he winds up throwing her backwards, their hands looping over and under her left thigh.

Her eyes blow wide, hips thrusting up and out to make more space for them both, because now she’s lost all of the support she had on her stronger right side, and her leg is extended so far that she’s nearly off the circle.

“Left foot red,” says Kagami, with absolute bloodlust, and Adrien doesn’t understand why. The nearest red circle is just inches away from the black, and it will make things easier for both of them--Marinette clocks his reaction, and her eyes light up. 

Adrien regrets looking at the red circle immediately.

She does something so crazy Adrien can’t actually believe it’s happening. 

She kicks up and over his head with the foot still attached to his, knocking his arm off the blue circle without hitting her own, smacking his nose with the back of her thigh,  _ good lord _ , and at first it seems like she’s going to take the red circle halfway across the mat, but instead--forcing Adrien to twist his body into a freaking curlicue to accommodate his own spidery limbs--drops down next to Adrien’s right foot. 

“Ow,” says Adrien, because his lower half is now one giant knot as he stares up at her where he’s being made into a bridge before her casual upward plank.

“Hello, lover,” she says happily, before breaking down into delighted giggles. “That was almost too easy.”

“Penalty for Adrien,” Kagami announces again.  
“Oh _no,_ ” Adrien moans, as Nino comes back with the whiskey again.

Alya and Luka are popping crackers and cheese now, teeth bared. “Not doing so well there, handsome,” Luka says, and even if he’s a little sore from the game, he seems immensely entertained.

“Is that my new nickname? Better than Trust Fund, definitely.”

“We love it,” says Luka. He runs a hand up the length of Kagami’s leg, stopping to stroke her twill-trousered thigh like Doctor Evil with his cat. “I want to go easy on you, but I also want to give Marinette a fighting chance.”

“Et tu, Beaute?” Adrien asks him, giving him huge puppy eyes. “I saved you last time!”

“You did,” Luka says placidly. “Right foot black.”

“SERIOUSLY?” Marinette cries, and Adrien beams. 

He pulls the same bullshit move on her that she’d just done to him, and now she’s the one that looks like a rigatoni. 

Marinette takes her penalty shot--

\--but then Adrien remembers what black means, and his face falls.  _ Click  _ goes one last pair of cuffs around their only unbound limbs.

“No,” he says.

“Mm-hmm,” Marinette nods back.

“How are we supposed to play now?!!” 

“We don’t,” Marinette says. “Luka just ended the game.”

“Wait,  _ what?!! _ ” Adrien gasps. “But- _ - _ agh!”

“And we have our new spinners,” Kagami declares, dusting off her hands, pulling Luka to his feet. 

“ _ What?!!”  _ Adrien moans. 

“The last, and most important rule,” Kagami says, with pure, sadistic pleasure, “is anybody who winds up with all four limbs cuffed automatically wins the game.”

“So it’s a tie?” Adrien asks, and they all laugh at him.

“It’s a tie,” Marinette says, her body softening as she loops her hands and Adrien’s around the back of his neck. Her smile is quite predatory. “They won’t uncuff us until someone else wins.”

“Oh,” he says vaguely, and then his face lights up. “ _ Ooooooh. _ ”

...because now he gets to spend however long it takes to get through the next round bound to her, and they don’t even have to wrestle. He can’t think of anything he’d like better (that doesn’t involve getting a room, as Nino had so thoughtfully suggested).

\--

It turns out that a very vengeful Adrienette are a hell of a lot worse with spin-powers than Kagami. 

Trying to manipulate their friends into the most compromising positions possible is a  _ heck  _ of a lot of fun, and he and Marinette are extremely,  _ extremely  _ good at it.

\--

Successfully loosened up and sufficiently bruised, Adrien darts upstairs to get the USB drive containing the latest  _ Miraculous  _ movie from Marinette’s bedroom desk. Marinette, Nino, and Luka rearrange the living room to normalcy while Alya puts away Twister. Kagami shelves the Jameson in favor of something less gross, with a lower alcohol concentration, and sets glasses on the coffee table.

Kagami won’t be playing the drinking game with them (she really does have to be able to function in the office tomorrow...at least somewhat), but she still pours herself quite a healthy amount of the beaujolais she and Luka had brought with the cheese as she settles herself happily on Luka’s lap. 

Nino and Alya snuggle up beside them under Marinette’s Chat blanket, and Adrien has to keep himself from going  _ aaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwww  _ when Nino nuzzles her cheek. 

(Their wrists are still cuffed under the throw.)

Everyone in this group is so cute, and so funny, and so  _ nice,  _ and so WEIRD...Adrien realizes, as he plugs in the USB, that he’s actually happy, which, given the circumstances, is unexpected.

The movie begins, and Marinette pulls her phone out of her pocket. She explains the rules one more time--one drink for cat puns, four drinks for “ _ she’s just a friend, _ ” two drinks for Tom acting like Peter Parker, etc. etc.--as the opening scene begins.

“Ooh, it’s weird to see you snuggled up to Chloe now,” Alya threads fingers into Nino’s hair, massaging his scalp. “It’s even weirder to think that I know  _ Chloe. _ ”

Oh--Adrien needs to text her. He’d forgotten.

He stretches out onto his side on the rug, and Marinette nestles up against him; he wraps his left leg over her knee, threading his foot between her ankles. She tucks her face into the crook of his elbow, sighing contentedly. 

“Oooh, there’s Hawkmoth,” Kagami says. “Drink, people.”

“He hasn’t akumatized anyone yet,” Luka objects.

“Yes, but we’re supposed to drink whenever he does anything nefarious, and he was smiling.”

“Hmmm, he does have a nefarious smile,” Alya toasts them all.

Marinette yawns.

“Are you getting sleepy, Bague-inette?” Adrien asks softly into the shell of her ear.

“No,” she lies, yawning again. She gives a little wriggle against him, and he presses up against her with his hips and his stomach, smiling as he rubs their cheeks together. 

She hums blissfully, turning her head to pucker her lips against the edge of his mouth. 

“Do you want kisses, Princess?” he chuckles, voice so quiet it’s nothing but breath against her skin, and she nods, lashes lifting ever so slightly, a sliver of blue iris twinkling beneath them. His smile broadens, stretching against her, as she reaches up to caress the back of his neck.

She finds the depression just behind his earlobe with her pinkie nail, and gives it one long stroke, and he melts with a quiet little groan as all of his over-stimulated nerves light up at once.

He licks a stripe, just with the very tip of his tongue, across the slick swell of her lower lip, and she gives him another little pinkie stroke. He swears very, very softly, well below hearing range of everyone on the sofa, what with the film going and all, and thinks he’s probably safe to maybe sneak a hand up under her shirt, just to reach some skin, maybe caress that stretch below her belly button a bit that he’s become very fond of. She shivers hard as his fingertips meet the waistband of her leggings.

“Adrien,” she says quietly, eyebrows raising, still half-lidded.

“Mmm?”

“Careful. We still have company,” she breathes, giving one slow, almost unnoticeable roll of her hips, and his eyes fly open, breath catching in his throat. 

He smacks his forehead on the edge of the table.

“Oh!” Marinette gasps, hand slipping forward to cradle the bit of skull he’d just bashed. “Sorry!”

“Adrien’s trying to make out with Marinette under the table,” Kagami declares behind them. “Four drinks.”

“That’s not even part of the movie,” Nino says, laughing.  
“So?” Kagami laughs. “We’re supposed to drink anytime we see Chat Thirst, so.”

Adrien grins sheepishly down at Marinette, reaching for their shared wine glass, and she sits up just high enough that he can tip a bit into her mouth. Her lips stick to the rim as he pulls it away, and they’re so red and tempting that he forgets all about the wine; he forgets about  _ everything else, _ and opts for tasting them instead.

\--

...Marinette falls asleep like five minutes after that.

\--

By the time the credits roll, Luka and Adrien are once again the only people still awake. Alya slumbers soundly on Nino’s shoulder, and Kagami has her head pillowed on Alya’s lap again; Alya’s unbound hand is draped loosely over Kagami’s hip. Luka gives a tiny little sniffle; Adrien is drifting himself, and if it weren’t for Luka’s soft footsteps approaching where Adrien’s head is pillowed on Marinette’s soft chest, he probably would’ve succumbed to sleep too.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Luka says, wiping the back of his hand on his jeans. “Sorry, that last scene with Hawkpapa got to me. You’re a great actor, man.”

“Mmm,” Adrien says, blinking up at him. 

He holds up the beaujolais, giving it a shake. “You want to finish this off with me on the roof?”

Adrien takes that to mean Luka wants to speak with him about something, and Adrien wonders if he’s about to get the shovel talk.

“Sure,” he nods, very carefully extricating himself from Marinette’s body. She curls up into a ball at the loss of his warmth, snoring softly.

Both Adrien and Luka gaze at her with fondness, before they turn that same, shared look on each other. 

They head up the stairs, careful to avoid stepping on Plagg as they enter Marinette’s room.

Gathering blankets from the cupboard, they squeeze out of the roof access panel, and Luka plops himself down on the far chair. Adrien takes the one closest to the door. He waits patiently for whatever it is Luka needs to say to him, and he’s super surprised when nothing comes.

Luka pulls a rainbowy vape out of his pocket.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

“Of course not.”

“Would you like a hit?”

“No, thanks,” Adrien says politely. Luka passes him the wine instead. Adrien takes a gulp, before setting the bottle back on the little table resting between their chairs. 

Luka leans back, strawberry menthol bubbling away into thick white clouds around him, staring up at the cloud-wispy moon.

Long, quiet minutes. Adrien isn’t sure what to expect.

“I love this roof,” he finally says, and Luka smiles warmly at him.

“It’s great, isn’t it? Just such a nice place to sit.”  _ Krrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrssssssssh  _ goes his vape as he inhales. “In the Springtime, when the market re-opens after Winter ends, it’s the most amazing spot for people-watching.” He rubs his sore elbow absently. “I remember the first time I saw Kagami, I was up here; she’d just finished fencing lessons, and was practicing in the park while her mom watched.” He gazes away into the night, lost in a memory. “We were just kids then. It was such a long time ago.”

“How far back do you guys actually go?”

“Well, the first time Juleka and Marinette involved me in sneaking Kagami out of her house--your childhood homes sound somewhat similar, from what Marinette’s said--” Adrien swallows, because he knows precisely what Luka’s getting at with that one “--I was seventeen and she was fifteen, but as far as the group goes...hmmm...I met Marinette when they were...oh, fourteen? I was sixteen,” he sips at the wine. “We had a band then. We were okay. Marinette used to design our costumes.”

“She’s incredibly talented.”

“She told me you had Tom Ford call her a few months ago,” Luka turns his eyes to meet Adrien’s; they are very somber. “I wish she’d get back into it, you know? Design.”

Adrien wonders, briefly, if he should feel weird about talking to Luka about Marinette; if he’s...supposed to be weirded out by the entire group dynamic, period. He’s still not great with things like that--the basics of human interaction--but he doesn’t  _ want  _ to be weirded out, because he  _ isn’t _ . If anything, he’s spent the evening feeling loved; part of something bigger than himself, which is completely absurd, given how dumb the game was. It was so easy to get lost in; to feel distracted, and whole, and alright.  _ Should  _ he be feeling jealous or something? Is there a template for how to behave when his girlfriend’s ex-husband and new wife were very obviously enjoying watching said ex-husband’s ex-wife and her new partner playing Twister in handcuffs? Is this healthy? He doesn’t know.

“What’s on your mind?” Luka says faintly, dark brows drawing together under his candyfloss fringe.   
“Oh. I was just thinking about the game,” he says.

“Ah,” Luka drops his eyes to the table. “Were you uncomfortable earlier? I’m really sorry; I thought...I’m usually pretty good at reading the room, but--”

Adrien chuckles. No. Not remotely uncomfortable. That’s what he’s a bit worried about. “Not in the slightest.”

Luka tilts his head, considering. “Ah. You’re worried that it  _ doesn’t  _ worry you.”

“A little,” Adrien says. “I mean. I’m a grown man. I’m thirty years old. I should be mature enough to navigate these things.”

Luka sits up straighter, curling toward him. “To be fair, we aren’t typical, and you’re hurt,” he says gently. Adrien coughs a little at the bluntness of that, but it isn’t some kind of judgement or patronization or something. When Luka says it, it’s just a statement of fact. “Not that I actually believe that any relationship is typical. We’ve just...been through  _ so much  _ together, all of us, so...petty things, you know, like...history, don’t really bother us. We do love each other very much, the group. It’s what our friendships are built on.”

_ Ah, here it comes,  _ Adrien thinks.  _ Here’s where he tells me not to hurt her and stuff.  _

“Marinette’s always been a bit like you--like, _on_ all the time. You know?” Luka says. “She’s very conscious of making sure everyone is happy, and she’s good at it. But when you’re here...she’s…” Luka breathes, smiling. “It’s tragic that you weren’t around when we were young; I’ve never seen Marinette like she is now. I really haven’t. She’s so present. Plus...well,” his face smooths into somberness again. “We’re a pretty great family, honestly. We would’ve snuck you out too, like we did with Kagami. Covert operations were the best, especially when Mom was alive. We used to hang out on the boat all the time. I swear we adopted everybody at one time or another. You would’ve loved it; it was music all the time, really properly bohemian. We’ve calmed down a lot.” He chuckles. “Kagami and I love your playing, by the way. That recording of you in Prague last winter, just in that mall? It’s a shame Debussey wasn’t alive to see what you’ve done to his music. Virtuoso, man.” 

Adrien blinks at him. That wasn’t what he was expecting at all.

“I love the piano,” Adrien says faintly. “That was my mom’s favorite piece. I think of her when I play it.”

Luka’s eyes go a little glossy. “My mom would’ve liked it too.”

It dawns on him what’s actually happening: Luka is making sure he’s okay. Luka is worried about him. He hardly knows anything about Adrien, and he’s  _ worried  _ about him.

To say Adrien is shook is a bit of an understatement.

“You ever think about doing that for a living?” Luka asks. “Playing?”

“Of course not,” Adrien says, a bit wry. “There’s no money in it. The only reason I was ever allowed to audition for my first film was because the casting director  _ asked  _ me to, and basically handed my father the paycheck before filming ever started.” He huffs. “I know I’m being gauche. Sorry.”

“We don’t care about gauche,” Luka laughs.

Adrien wonders for the millionth time since meeting Marinette what his life, what his  _ identity  _ would be like if he’d been raised with these people. 

“Hey, Adrien, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like I’m criticizing you--All that shit Kagami was telling you about; all the stuff with your family...I’ll just cut the bullshit and say what I mean. I’m really glad you’re here now, with  _ us, _ ” Luka says at length. He stops to gauge Adrien’s reaction. “I know it’s not my place to be like, welcome to the family. You hardly know me. Is it okay that I’m saying this? Is this too much? You can be honest, it’s okay.”

Adrien swallows. No, it isn’t too much. He feels like he’s longed for a conversation like this all his damned life. “I’m just emotional,” he says. “Please continue telling me how great I am, though. I do live for it.” He tries to give Luka an eyebrow waggle, but there’s literally zero point to pretending  _ anything  _ around this guy; he’s like a mindreader. 

“I thought you might,” Luka smiles at him. “We’re all glad you came to stay with us when all this shit went down. It’s like you’re the piece that’s been missing this entire time, like we were just waiting for you. So, nights like this--we should have them more. And I know Kagami feels the same way, and Alya, and Nino.”

Adrien’s face heats up slightly. “Thank you. That means a lot to me,” he says, pulling at the ends of his white, white sleeves with his fingertips, tugging them over his knuckles.

They fall silent. Crickets chirp around them; they can hear the faint sounds of mid-90s dance music bopping along somewhere in the distance.

Adrien grabs the wine bottle, and takes another sip. “I really wish you guys would’ve been around to sneak me out.”

Luka sighs, and takes another drag off his vape. “Me too, man. Me too.”

\--

They talk for hours, about everything and nothing: Adrien’s shitty childhood, the industry, the differences between French and American business practices, their shared appreciation for feisty brunettes in red dresses, the loss of their moms, why chicken nuggets taste so good _,_ socialism, diminished seventh chords, Adrien’s pun kink, Jacques Dutronc’s _Les cactus,_ how Adrien’s entire body is basically one giant double joint, how Luka isn’t sure if he actually _has_ joints anymore. When Kagami comes upstairs with three massive coffee cups in hand, yawning, her pixie cut explosive black dandelion fluff around her face, the sky is already pink and blue, and the birds are singing.

“Marinette’s still passed out under the coffee table. I’m going to steal one of her suits so we don’t have to leave,” she says, passing mugs around, draping herself over Luka with the kind of raw affection Adrien is surprised she’s capable of expressing. “She was talking about you in her sleep.” She winks at Adrien, smudged eyeliner the stuff of 1960s cinematic dreams.

Luka kisses her temple. 

Everything feels floaty and surreal, champagne-bubbly and soft, and Adrien draws cold air through his nose, watching light filter through golden leaves below. Paris is waking up.

“He got to you,” Kagami says in her sleep-crackly voice, her coy little smile curling up into her cheeks. “You’re wearing the ‘ _ I stayed up all night with Luka’  _ face.”

“Is there a specific face for that?”

“It’s a diagnosable condition.”

“He’s a good one, Kagami,” Luka says sagely. “We’re keeping him.”

“So that was a shovel talk after all?” Adrien blinks at him, grinning.

Luka watches a pair of doves on the roof opposite. “Oh please. Like you need shoveling. I might take an actual shovel to your  _ father,  _ though.”

“Luka!” Kagami hisses, but she looks pleased with this statement.

“No, thanks,” Adrien swirls his coffee around in its little mug. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather that nobody else go to prison because of him.”

“Oh, we’d never get caught,” Kagami says offhandedly.

Adrien looks at her dipping her hand into Luka’s pocket, withdrawing his vape to suck on it, and he thinks, with insomnia-fuzzed detachment, that she’s probably right.

\--

As a little boy, Adrien had spent hours on his bedroom floor, dreaming of what it would be like to have friends: the kind that didn’t want anything from him, that liked  _ him  _ and not his name, that he could get into trouble with and play with and talk to.

The realization that he suddenly has them--he has  _ friends,  _ **real friends** \--is as momentous as any of the tragedies he’s experienced.

He’s going to be okay.

Adrien is going to be okay.

\-- 

Marinette wakes up on the floor again, and groans at the stiffness in her joints. She panics for a second, wondering why nobody woke her for work, but then she sees Adrien and Luka coming down the stairs together, laughing almost soundlessly together about she doesn’t know what, and she smiles to herself. Kagami follows them, adjusting her cuffs; she’s wearing one of Marinette’s suits, a yellow thing she’d made in college. It makes her eyes very, very gold.

A day off.  _ A day off. _

It’s still irresponsible, of course, that she’s keeping the bakery closed for a day, but...oh, a day off. And a day off with  _ Adrien,  _ at that. 

Adrien, who is bending to sweep her up into his strong arms. His eyes are shadowed and a bit bloodshot, sleepless and exhausted, but they’re also deeply fond, and he looks...he looks happy.

“Shall we retire to your chambers, my lady?” he says quietly, mindful of Nino and Alya still curled up together on the sofa.

“An excellent idea, my prince,” she replies, giggling a little at how sappy that is, and he kisses her cheek. 

“You two are ridiculous,” Kagami shakes her head at them. 

“Ridiculously adorable, yes,” Adrien grins back at her, and Marinette yawns again, eyes threatening to close. Adrien is very warm, and his broad shoulders make for excellent pillows.

She doesn’t really remember Adrien carrying her upstairs, or navigating the trap door, or even making her way up to the loft. All she recalls with any kind of clarity when she next wakes is Adrien pulling her on top of him like a blanket, settling his chin over the curve of her head, whispering, for the hundredth time,  _ “Thank you. _ ”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, this story is basically just a loveletter to Adrien and everyone who loves him. plot? yeah, it's secondary to the love.
> 
> sorry bout it (except i'm not sorry at all)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things about to get real messy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have rewritten this chapter about eight times. no exaggeration. apologies for the delay. it just wouldn't do what i wanted it to, and this is an important bit, so...sIgH
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:
> 
> 1\. if you want to avoid a domestic abuse and bonus drug use mention, skip the paragraph labeled and ending with **.  
> 2\. i guess this chapter might count as lila salt? i mean. she's horrendous in the canon, so i consider this pretty in-character, but...whatever. avoid if you love lila i guess?  
> 3\. gabriel.  
> ...that's it. that's the warning.

Kagami yawns into her coffee mug. She really shouldn’t have attempted to stay up for _Ladybug_ , but she’d wanted to make the night last as long as possible. It’s really nice, what Adrien does to the group dynamic; how he softens everyone’s edges. Giving him that “legal advice” had been downright painful, as she knew it would be...inundating people with nothing but terrible news and prying questions is always hard, but Kagami is best suited to deal with the hard stuff. This is why she and Alya get along so well: they handle shit.

And what a shitty situation this is, too. Of course Marinette, with her golden heart and unsquashable ability to be the beaniest bean of all of them, would wind up with someone with more issues than _Vogue._ It’s a damn good thing the burden of saving her Prince Charming doesn’t rest solely on Marinette’s Pixar-narrow shoulders, because Kagami knows--they _all_ know, from decades of personal experience--that she would try. 

When Kagami’s Gabriel-issued private car arrives at the prison gates, she flashes her ID, and the guard--a guy named Marcel; she’s known him since lycee--opens the gates for her with an ironically cheerful good morning.

Kagami is deeply familiar with La Sante at this point; she’s spent many, _many_ mornings here, and all of the staff knows her, too. The guards are always on good behavior when Kagami is around, and oftentimes the prisoners are as well. She’s never been the type to be intimidated by law enforcement _or_ law breakers...in her latter teen years, she’d had an angry, rebellious streak hundreds of meters wide, and she _gets_ the need to subvert the law. It’s why she studied it, after all.

Nathalie, though...something about her freaks Kagami out, and she isn’t entirely sure what it is yet. 

When Kagami is led to the small conference room, she’s seated with a guard on one side of a narrow, sky-blue table. It always makes her laugh, seeing these dark horrible rooms on Netflix crime procedurals, because in real life, most of them resemble the one she’s in now: empty, well-lit, not particularly ominous, very boring.

She feels a little antsy today, though. Somehow the lights seem a bit harsher; the emptiness just that much more spartan. Maybe Netflix is on to something.

Nathalie is presented to her. Her hair is still swept into its typical prim bun; she’s even wearing makeup. She certainly doesn’t look like a prisoner.

Cocking an eyebrow, she takes in the lemony suit Kagami stole from Marinette's closet with indifference, gaze pausing for a moment on the curve of Kagami’s waist. Kagami is thinner than Marinette is, and the suit is bespoke; no doubt Nathalie has noticed it wasn’t tailored for her.

Kagami tries not to let this bother her.

“Good morning,” Nathalie says, shaking her hand. “Comment ca va?”

“I’m well, thank you. And you?”

“I’m enjoying sleeping in, thanks.”

Kagami’s manners are sharply honed, but this garners two slow blinks. Nathalie folds herself into the uncomfortable plastic chair like a CEO might their throne behind a great mahogany desk.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Kagami says, covering her surprise at that comment with a slightly awkward throat-clearing. “Let’s dive right in, shall we?” 

Kagami sips her coffee. Nathalie watches her, completely silent, and very still.

Kagami lays out several files; it’s actually quite good that she’d spent so long going over everything with Adrien and Alya the night before, because she’d come up with at least six near-defensible points that she can use to get Nathalie’s pending sentence reduced. 

“Now, if you’d be willing to provide documentation that Agreste coerced you into providing him with information you’d collected--perhaps if we spin it from the angle that you were afraid you’d lose your job, and thus your livelihood--we can prove--”

Nathalie holds up a hand, frowning. “No, Madame Couffaine. I have no evidence to show that he’d done anything of the sort, because he _didn’t._ I’m guilty.”

“I’m not sure why you would choose to hide the fact that you were constantly mistreated while working for him,” Kagami says, trying not to let her frustration bleed into her tone. “There’s no point withholding anything. You won’t have a job to go back to--”

The light plays blue over the crown of her head as she shakes it; the color reminds Kagami of Marinette’s.

“I love him, Kagami. He isn’t simply my boss. The Agrestes are my family.”

Kagami’s breathing stutters just slightly. “You do realize that, if I could defend _anyone_ on the basis that they loved their partners in crime--”

“I’m not sure you understand my position. Of course I realize that,” Nathalie nods. “But I have always been willing to do anything I thought would benefit him. Gabriel did what he thought was necessary.”

“Yes, sure, 'necessary.' Please explain the necessity of blackmailing Audrey Bourgeois into a joint show for Fashion Week 2006--”

“Oh, Kagami,” Nathalie sighs, the placid zaffre of her eyes going sharp as they narrow into slits above her tensing cheeks, “that wasn’t _blackmail._ That was a business transaction.”

“From what I see here, Audrey was having an affair with a model. Gabriel found out. He told Audrey in no uncertain terms that she would either showcase a series of Gabriel designs on her stage, or he would leak news of the relationship to the press.”

“ _Wrong,_ ” Nathalie says coolly. “Gabriel told Audrey that he would out the relationship if Audrey didn’t tell him what she knew about where Emilie had gone.”

Kagami frowns. “What?”

Emilie’s disappearance is, of course, a detail that hasn’t been overlooked, but Kagami hadn’t realized there were connections between any of the Peacock Ring’s hits and Gabriel’s missing wife.

...of _course_ she hasn’t, though; Nathalie _won’t talk to her._

“Audrey and Emilie were very close,” Nathalie says. “If you check the dates on those records, Emilie had only just disappeared a week before that information was collected. Emilie was extremely ill at the time that she left, and she’d supposedly told Audrey that there were a few places she was considering visiting, ‘on vacation.’ _Audrey_ refused to tell Gabriel what she knew, _supposedly_ at Emilie’s request, and the police refused to share any information either. Audrey _chose_ to showcase Gabriel’s design as a sort of apology for refusing to share Emilie’s secrets. Audrey will back that up, if she’s questioned.” She blew out a sigh. “The records pertaining to Emilie’s disappearance are publically available now. I’d assume that, if you were doing your job, you might’ve looked into them.”

Kagami grits her teeth; if Nathalie or Gabriel had said anything like this in the first place, she very definitely would have looked more deeply into Emilie’s history, _but they hadn’t_.

“How many of these incidents are linked back to Emilie?” Kagami asks, after filing that tidbit away in her brain.

Nathalie looks as though she is going to refuse to answer that question point blank, but instead she shrugs. “Surely that is a matter best left to Gabriel’s lawyers. It hardly concerns me.”

The mood in the room has gone bleak and extremely tense. 

“Look, Ma’am Sanceour, you're contradicting yourself, which isn't helpful,” Kagami says at length. “I don’t know whether you’re being purposefully opaque, or if you don’t understand the depth of trouble you’re actually in, but refusing to cooperate with me, _your defense lawyer,_ isn’t prudent.”

“You’re asking questions that aren’t meant for me,” Nathalie says, tone equally condescending. “I am guilty of everything I’m being charged with, and there’s no way around that. I _did_ collect information on hits Gabriel gave me. I willingly provided that information to him. I monitored tracking apps and I stole mail. I hacked inboxes. I did all of that. I trusted that whatever I did, Gabriel was using both to protect his family and his company. I’m not going to deny that. It isn't defensible. I’d do it all again if he asked.”

So this woman is completely insane. Right. Well, Kagami’s represented worse.

“Is there any evidence that you can provide that would prove any of these activities _did_ protect ‘the family,’ as you’ve said?” She might be able to build some kind of half-baked defence on that.

“Again, that question isn’t meant for me,” Nathalie shrugs, “but I can tell you something that might help Gabriel.”

“Aren’t you interested at all in helping yourself?”

“No,” Nathalie says simply. 

“Then why am I here?”

Nathalie taps the table with her long nails. “Gabriel has been working for years now with that woman from _Voici,_ the one that calls herself Lila Rossi. She and Gabriel had a deal of sorts, but I’m not entirely sure what that deal actually entailed. But if you _do_ have a chance to speak with Gabriel’s representation, you might bring up this point.”

“Which point is that?” 

“Lila Rossi isn’t who she says she is,” Nathalie says, “and whatever she wants from Gabriel has nothing to do with the good of our family, which is why _I_ refused to work with her. You can take from that what you will.”

\--

When Kagami comes out of the meeting with Nathalie, she’s so irritated and jumpy she bums a cigarette off a guy in the lobby.

This is a list of things she has learned:

  1. Gabriel has never blackmailed anyone into giving Adrien a job.
  2. Most of the people Gabriel has blackmailed and threatened had some sort of connection to Emilie.
  3. The people who hadn’t been connected to Emilie had hurt Adrien somehow. Gabriel hasn’t used threats to further Adrien’s career; if anything, Adrien’s career has flourished _despite_ what Gabriel has done to people Adrien knows behind the scenes.
  4. Nathalie is royally fucked, and she’s fine with it. 
  5. Nathalie is worried about Adrien, because this trial is going to destroy him. (Why she never considered this in the first place is a question Kagami isn’t sure she wants to know the answer to.)
  6. Marinette should _not_ be tangled up with this family.



\--

“Adrien Agreste,” Alya says, brandishing a baguette like a sword, “one more line of _‘Watermelon Sugar’_ out of you and I’m going to slap you with bread.”

“It’s a great song,” Adrien pouts at her where he’s lounged all Adonis-like...alright, perhaps more _Hermes-_ like, really; he is _Adrien_ after all...on top of the kitchen island, wearing another, fresher pair of Marinette’s truly amazing leggings and [ a gigantic, patchworked jumper emblazoned with a puffy DG logo ](https://mediacdn.livestory.io/v1/dolcegabbana/posts/r1000/5f6b9aad406f590038e66802.jpg). Alya and Nino had come down to find him there, happily feeding Plagg bits of cheese from the devastated remains of the Couffaine’s expensive platter.

“By whose standards?” she fonds at him.

“ _Mine!_ Harry is crazy talented!” Adrien sniffs imperiously. “Not a word will be said against him in my presence. He is a treasure.”

“I forgot you two are friends.” She hums thoughtfully. “Whose legs are longer?”

“Mine,” Adrien says; Nino says, at the exact same time, “His.”

Adrien holds a fist up for bumping and Nino is happy to oblige. Alya snickers at them, pouring out four generous mugs of coffee.

Nino’s iBook suddenly bleeps in protest; Nino laughs.

“Bro, you’re on my keyboard,” Nino gives Adrien’s ear a flick, and Adrien goes, “Ack, sorry, Nino.”

“Why are you laying on the island anyway? Not that there’s anything wrong with that; just...out of curiosity.” Alya raises an eyebrow at him, grinning as she shakes her head.

“It’s comfy,” Adrien says simply. 

“Where’s Mari?” Nino asks, tugging the computer closer to him to get it away from Adrien’s lingering elbow.

“In the shower,” Adrien says, cheeks going slightly pink, which Alya immediately clocks.

“What, and you didn’t join her?” she winks.

“Well, she joined _me_ ,” Adrien scratches at the back of his neck, “but I...er. Finished before her.” He pulls his limbs up and into some kind of Spiderman-crouch, and has the audacity to look bashful and cute about the innuendo he’d just made.

“Oh, she made you leave, huh?” Nino says casually, tapping away at his keyboard.

“She said the walls are really thin,” Adrien says, a bit pointedly, and Nino snickers at him. 

“She’s right,” Alya and Nino say in unison. Adrien blushes furiously.

Then, to get him out of his head, Alya swats Adrien with a magazine. “Oi, you. No feet on the counter.”

“I’m clean though,” Adrien’s pout darkens, but he hops down anyway, opting instead to perch himself delicately and with great dignity atop a barstool.

“This is not a frat house, Agreste, despite what our behavior might otherwise suggest,” Alya warns playfully, biting straight into the baguette. He blinks innocently up at her.

“You guys don’t have frats here.”

“Doesn't mean I don't know what you come from,” she says, and she means it like a joke, but she realizes immediately that _what Adrien comes from_ might be quite a delicate subject indeed. She backtracks. “You looked like you had a great time in university.”

“Pssh, when I actually bothered to show up to class. I worked the whole way through it. Being here is better,” Adrien says decisively, before dissolving into a huge yawn. “Are you off to work soon?”

“Mmmm, I _should_ be off to work...yes. Now,” Alya nods, glancing at her red and black polka-dotted watch. “And _call Chloe,_ okay? She’s driving me nuts.”

“Ten missed calls this morning,” Nino adds in helpfully.

“ _Twelve,_ ” Alya grumbles.

Adrien winces, and then opts for charming his way out of the situation. “I’m sure she’s just using this as an excuse to chat with you. She talks about you all the time, you know.”

Alya chuckles to herself, leaning over the countertop on a tweed-wrapped arm to smirk at him. “Adrien, let me tell you right now, flattery works wonders on me.” Tossing her hair over one shoulder, she takes one of Marinette’s pain chocolats from the bread box and, wrapping it in a bit of kitchen roll, tucks it into her briefcase.

Tipping Nino’s chin up with one pretty orange-nailed finger, she kisses him sweetly on the mouth, and then on the forehead. He smiles up at her as she flits towards the door.

“Take care of each other, boys. Don’t have too much fun without me. _Please_ don’t spend all day fangirling Harry Styles.” 

“Bye, Alya!” Nino and Adrien sing-song, waving in unison.

She throws her silky coat over one shoulder, and then disappears into the hall.

Nino stares after her, smitten.

Adrien grins, and hops back up onto the island with a cheeky little grin. “You two are amazing,” he says, and his tone can be described as nothing but dreamy. “Marinette talks about you guys a lot; I used to dream of finding what you have when I was a kid.”

Nino blinks up at him, cheeks coloring. “Thanks, man. That’s really nice.”

Adrien shrugs back, tugging his sleeves over his hands, smiling softly to himself. “It’s true.” 

“Gotta say, though...I think Marinette’s a pretty safe bet,” Nino pushes his glasses up his nose, squinting at his screen. 

The dopamine that floods Adrien’s brain is so immediate and so strong that he actually feels how soft his face has gone. “You think?”

Marinette comes down a few moments later, stretching her arms above her head. Her hair is wrapped in a pink towel; she’s pilfered Adrien’s dressing gown. “Afternoon, Nino,” she says cheerfully, sniffing around for coffee. She is deeply pleased to find the mug Alya left behind for her, grabbing it gleefully and giving a little wriggle as she takes her first sip. She hops _almost_ gracefully up onto the island beside Adrien; she only manages to bash her knee against the barstool once.

“Hello again, Ocean Eyes,” Adrien says, pressing a kiss to her neck. 

“Hee-hee. Ocean Eyes. I like that.” 

“I like your outfit.”

“I feel like I’m wearing a teddy bear,” she replies, kissing him back, on the swell of his cheekbone. 

“Don’t worry, Mari; it’s cruelty-free. No toys were harmed in the making of my wardrobe.” He buries his face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her. He grins. “ Adrien the Fragrance again?”

“You’d better bet.”

“Like I was saying, Adrien,” says Nino from beside them, “you two give me ‘n Lyly a run for our money.”

Marinette peers at him over Adrien’s golden head, and blushes. “What was that now?”

“Oh, nothing,” Nino says, returning to his emails. 

\--

The rest of the afternoon passes in relative mellowness. Adrien has a fairly heated exchange with Chloe regarding his disappearance that ends in her screaming about something to do with the Kardashians. How this relates to her concern for Adrien is anyone’s guess. 

Nino shows Adrien his turntables; Adrien is definitely _not_ a DJ, which nobody quite has the heart to tell him. 

Luka shows up with more food; Marinette wonders why everyone is suddenly so interested in feeding them, but that question is answered instantly the moment Adrien practically swallows his sandwich whole and she realizes _neither_ of them have actually eaten anything yet. So, that’s a thing...they aren’t particularly good at feeding themselves. Right. Luka watches Adrien start on his second helping, wearing quite a knowing expression indeed, because knowing expressions are Luka’s Thing.

Adrien slinks off into the shadows for a while to answer an email from the court; when he comes back he’s quieter than he had been, but he isn’t particularly forthcoming about whatever they have said. He reassures them everything is fine; that he’d simply been asked to provide some paperwork for Gabriel’s defense lawyers, and that it’s _good_ news, not bad.

Marinette begins to worry about him again.

Kim calls at around 5. He apologizes for not showing up to work that morning; he’d had an emergency with his mom, and after he explains that the pipes had burst in her flat and that everything is fine, they all feel that it is safe and excusable to laugh long and hard at him. Marinette reassures him that he hadn’t really missed out on anything, considering they’d been closed.

“Oh no,” Kim gasps. “Are you guys okay? Did _your_ pipes burst too?”

“Things are great, Kim, don’t worry,” Marinette reassures him. “We’ll fill you in tomorrow, ok?”

“HI KIM,” yells Adrien at the end of the conversation, waving at Marinette’s phone screen, beaming.

“Oh hey, Cat Boy,” Kim says nonchalantly, before he breaks into a huge grin. “Wait, what the heck?”

Marinette rolls her eyes, but she’s obviously pleased Adrien’s put himself out there. “Don’t tell anyone he’s here, obviously.”

“Dude, did you take the day off so you could make babies? Will you name one of them after me? I can see the headlines now: _Kim Chien Le Dupain-Cheng-Agreste, World’s Most Beautiful Child, Born Today in Paris, Future Bodybuilder and Fashion Mogu--_ ”

“See you tomorrow, Kim,” says Marinette, hanging up on him.

\--

Night falls gently, the sky fading from pale blue to dusky indigo, and Adrien and Marinette watch the streets of Paris from their place on the roof in contented silence. Cuddled up in Adrien’s lap on the garden chair, Marinette takes in the view of the Eiffel Tower lighting up, twinkling like the stars etched on Adrien’s shinbones.

“Want to know something dumb?”

“Always, Princess.”

She pecks his chin. “I’m thirty years old, and I still dream of being Ladybug.”

“ _Do_ you.”

“I do,” she giggles at herself. “I have a pair of clip-on bug earrings and everything.”

“Did you write self-insert fanfic?” He waggles his eyebrows at her. “Just saying...I’ve read some pretty good stuff. You know our writers have _definitely_ stolen fan theories.”

“No,” she laughs, “but I’ve read it, for sure.”

“Our next _Miraculous_ film was supposed to be set in Paris, you know,” Adrien says into her cheek as the north star appears, breath ghosting past her ear in chocolatey gusts. He’d gone a bit ham on day-old macarons after dinner-slash-breakfast. “We were going to have this really intense scene where I confess my love to Bridgette, and she turns me down, because our relationship keeps leading to terrible outcomes.”

“So she’s not actually dead.”

“Of course not. She had the other half of her Miraculous. We were going to explore what happens when a Miraculous is damaged or incomplete, see.”

“Oh _no._ ”

“Yeah. And Felix was going to grapple with the whole loyalty to his family versus loyalty to the common good thing, which...you know. _Drama._ ”

“His family is garbage.”

“Yes. Definitely. And _we_ know that. It’s about Chat realizing it.”

Marinette massages Adrien’s fingers thoughtfully, nails catching on the edges of his paw-printed ring. He’s so, _so_ warm. “It’s all impossibly sad, isn’t it?”

“Mmm. People enjoy my pain.” This is meant to be a joke. Marinette doesn’t find it funny.

“People are _the worst_.”

“True,” Adrien says, grazing his lips against her cheek. She leans into him.

“Aren’t Ladybug and Chat incomplete if they don’t have each other, too? I mean, you know...if Bridgette and Felix are separated again, because they’re halves of a whole, doesn’t _that_ affect their Miraculous?”

“Oh, absolutely. Or at least, that’s what I’ve been pushing for, anyway,” Adrien nods. “That’s the point of their romance, isn’t it?”

“So why do they keep getting separated?”

“Mmmm...for the sake of the narrative, I suppose.”

“Well, that’s awful,” Marinette huffs. “Personally, I’m ready for them to just...retire and get married and live in a cottage in Nottingham Forest.” She thinks on that for a while. “I guess if they were stuck in London I wouldn’t be averse to a _Friends-_ style _Ladybug_ sitcom, to be honest.”

“Mmmmm, if we stayed in the UK, we’d probably go with North Wales,” Adrien says. “Less attention, more actual forest. Babbling brooks, cottages, rabid badgers, the like.”

“Ooooh, that’s very Howl and Sophie of you.”

“I _love_ Howl’s Moving Castle!” he grins. “We should watch it sometime.” He grins. “Book’s better, though.”

Her brain whirrs into hypermotion. “Oooh! Let’s act it out. We can read it together; Mylene loves it--I’ll steal it from her. Wouldn’t that be fun? We can use it as an excuse to introduce you! You’re going to like Mylene. We can spoil her baby together! I already know you’re amazing with kids.”

Adrien goes all soft-eyed and pink-cheeked. “That sounds perfect. You do have great taste in friends, I must say.”

“I also have great taste in living places. And while Wales sounds nice,” Marinette hums, “Canada sounds better. I’m really committed to that muskox.”

“Fewer paps, for sure,” Adrien nods. “Are we talking about Ladynoir, now, or are we talking about us?”

She derails. “Uh…”

He smooths a hand across the expanse of her ribs, tracing the boning in her fancy bralette that he hasn’t seen yet, but definitely will whenever they decide to call it a night. “It’s okay. No judgement from me. You know you’d look pretty amazing in yards of red Spandex; I’m really not complaining.”

Marinette files that away for later.

“If we really were Ladynoir, we could transform and go running all over the city together. Nobody’d have any idea who we were. Doesn’t that sound _perfect_? I wish I could take you out,” Marinette says, with such vehemence that Adrien’s eyes widen in surprise. “I want to like...whisk you away on a horse-drawn carriage and dance with you in the middle of Times Square and...and...I don’t know. Take you someplace nice that doesn’t require a password at the door.”

Adrien deflates a little. “Oh. Yeah. I mean, I feel the same way, of course. I’m...I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no; that’s not a criticism of _you,_ or a sign of dissatisfaction, or--I mean, I don’t want attention, if that’s what...no. You know I’m not saying that _._ If I didn’t want to, you know...be in this situation, I wouldn’t be. You--you’re worth _everything._ Every moment of...of weirdness, or--oh, I’m making a hash of this,” Marinette’s panic is beginning to set in. He can feel her muscles coiling against him. “It’s a criticism of how people treat you. You’re _not_ actually a character, you know? Just because you’re famous? You’re a person. I wish--I wish everyone treated you as a person. Hell, I wish the writers treated _Chat_ as a person. How do people not understand that--that--you’re a _person?_ ”

He digs his thumbs and the pads of his fingers into her rapidly tensing shoulders, squeezing in gentle circles.

“Chat’s a character, Mari,” he says in his most placating tone.

“Chat is _you._ I don’t care what anyone else says about it,” Marinette snaps. “You deserve respect.”

Adrien blinks at her, gently pulling her off his chest so that he can look into her eyes. “Hey. What’s this? Where is this coming from?”

Marinette presses her lips together, and stares at a couple holding hands across the street, pausing in front of the window of the adjacent bookshop.

“I guess I just want people to let you be happy,” she sighs, pressing her hands over the knuckles now resting on her stomach. 

He turns her chin so that she can meet his eyes, and he kisses her very gently on the forehead. “I have never been as happy as I am when I’m with you, My Mari, and I mean that. Don’t worry about people. _I’m_ not. Not right now, anyway.”

(Marinette knows him well enough that she can tell this isn’t entirely true.)

“Hey,” Marinette says brightly, beaming, “you wouldn’t happen to have any of the script that was in development, would you?”

Adrien pauses to think. “Mmm. I might have a bit on my phone…”

“Want to do a bit of roleplay? I mean, the studio might be renegotiating things or whatever, but you should still rehearse, right?” She grins at him, sparkling with sudden, manic glee, and when she jumps up and out of the blanket cocoon she’d covered them with, she doesn’t even shiver at the onslaught of cold air. “Please? It’s a _dream_ of mine.”

His heart warms in his chest, even though it’s kind of a weird request. “You know those scripts are confidential. The studio would have my life if any of that leaked.”

The depth of the deadpan she hits him with could rival the Marianas Trench. “Adrien. Seriously? Would I ever?”

“Oh, I have to say that. I’m contractually obligated.” He’s already got his phone out, of course. He passes it to her, lips curling into a slight grin. “I have it memorized already.”

Marinette winks at him. “Consummate professional, as always.”

He preens. “What can I say? There’s a reason they pay me the big bucks.”

\--

...so...this is a whole moment.

“ _Miraculous Ladybug!”_ Marinette roars with more zeal than Chloe ever has, hopping up onto the little wrought iron table in a single, surprising leap, spinning on her toes with ballet-precision. She’s got an unlit candle in hand (it’s meant to be a freaking machete in the script); throwing it skyward, it falls back down to the rooftop with a hard smack.

Adrien has to admit she makes a _damn_ good Ladybug. The voice, the messy pigtails she’s parted her hair into, the sudden grace to her movements there is basically no explanation for. Maybe his little bakery girl has a bit of the acting spark; he wouldn’t be surprised. Is slipping into a powerful, larger-than-life character as safe to her as it is to him? She certainly seems freer; she hasn’t tripped over anything or stuttered once.

Adrien has never had a thing for Ladybug; not in the way his issues with dissociation/identity have led some of his less perceptive therapists to believe. Of course he loves the _idea_ of finding the other half of him; he’s always _wanted_ another half (which is an entirely separate can of worms, emotional-health-wise), but watching _Marinette_ play her...she isn’t _really_ playing her, of course; there isn’t a scrap of her that remotely resembles Chloe’s slightly ditzy, smitten, and somewhat vapid Bridgette, but watching Marinette being _herself,_ AS Ladybug... _well_. 

Chat _and_ Adrien are definitely in love with this woman (even if Marinette’s Ladybug would probably clock Felix in the face if she ever met him if that night at Camille’s is any indication).

“My Lady,” Adrien intones, catching her easily as she hops off the table and into his waiting arms, “we’ve got ten minutes to get back to the Tower before Catastrophe’s bomb detonates. We have to hurry.”

Marinette glances down briefly at the phone, brows drawing up into wrinkled arcs of worry over her huge, trembling bluebell eyes, not missing a beat. “We won’t have enough time to disarm it _and_ save the kids at the Louvre--”

“You handle the kids, I’ll handle the bomb,” he says, not quite able to stifle the grin he’s wearing at how she tears away from him, running to point at the tower’s silhouette in the distance.

“Chat, you _can’t_ handle the bomb on your own; what if your Cataclysm sets it off before you can destroy it?”

“Oooh, look at those improv skills. That’s not in the script, Mlle. Diva!” Adrien’s smile is lopsided.

“Well, it’s stupid that it isn’t,” Marinette huffs, planting her fists on her hips, “because Bridgette would _definitely_ think of that.”

“I don’t think she’d worry about it much when half the city is about to be blown to smithereens. Chats have nine lives, remember. _Ten minutes,_ Mari.”

“She’d think of her partner killing himself three seconds after she’s just got him back, wouldn’t she?”

“She _hasn’t_ got him back; he’s going to betray her for his father.”

“Um, ex _cuuuuuuuuuuuuse_ me, Kitty,” Marinette scoffs, “he would _never._ You know he’s going to fight off that akumatization in act three.”

“Yeah, _after_ he destroys the world.”

“Marinette is going to go back in time and _save him,_ ” Marinette snaps, waggling a finger at him.

The misty moonlight paints her white and pink and silver, hair shining bluer than it usually does. Her massive, chunky, rosey-soft cardigan swamps her, but she looks _majestic,_ for want of a better word, all righteously indignant over characters that don’t actually exist.

Adrien grins. “ _Bridgette._ ”

“What?”

“ _Bridgette_ is going to go back in time and save him,” Adrien snickers, “not Marinette.”

Marinette realizes her mistake and flushes bright red. “That’s totally what I said. Totally. I’m not a weirdo. You just heard-mis me. MISHEARD me. Misheard me.”

“I did _not,_ ” Adrien starts crawling on all fours to where she’s standing at the railing, hopping upright a hair’s breadth away from her to sweep her into a bridal hold. “I think _somebody’s_ gone a bit method.”

“Who cares? Method or not, Ladybug loves Chat, so it doesn’t make sense that she’d just leave him to deal with something so dangerous himself. He harnesses the power of destruction; Cataclysms aren’t exactly low-impact weaponry,” she sniffs, wrapping her arms around his neck, not even reacting when he begins twirling them around again just for the fun of it. “We’ll call Claude and Allegra to save the kids. They can handle them.”

“Mmm, Tom’s contract is up.”

“We’ll offer him more money,” Marinette says, spitting a pigtail out of her mouth. “You and Chloe can take the pay-cut.”

“That’s true,” Adrien concedes, narrowly avoiding spinning them into a flower pot. 

“So Claude and Allegra will save the kids; we’ll go disarm that bomb together,” Marinette declares, “and then _I_ will follow you home before your stupid father can get ahold of you and akumatize you, _and then I will_ **_beat him senseless._ **”

“But that’d negate the whole Chat Blanc storyline,” he protests, frowning. 

“ _Good,_ ” Marinette snarls. “Nobody manipulates my kitty into blowing up the moon on _my_ watch. Anyway, you look _much_ better in black.” She flicks his hoodie’s drawstring.

“And how, My Lady, will you manage to take out Gabriel with only half your powers?”

Marinette tries to play off the absolute heartbreak that crumples her Ladybug face behind the complete ruination of a fake smile.

“Who’s method again?” Marinette snickers shakily at him, trying for pithy, coming off weak and worried, and Adrien feels himself going pale, blood draining away, feet catching on a particularly errant bit of air that sends them both crashing to the ground. 

“We fall down _way more_ than normal people do,” Adrien says, rubbing his head where Marinette caught it with her wrist. 

She kisses the sore spot quickly, gently rubbing at it with her thumb. “Sorry, chaton,” she says, biting her lip. “Can’t help that I’m head over heels for you.”

Pushing himself back up to a sitting position, he’s surprised to find he’s actually very dizzy indeed. Usually he spots to avoid falling; he’d been too busy gazing lovingly into her eyes this time. Whoops. “It’s a shame people don’t land on their feet nearly as often as actual cats do.”

“Well, you’re not transformed now, are you?” she sing-songs at him, and he appreciates her efforts at glossing over what he’d just said.

He breathes in, and then out again. “No,” he says, because he hasn’t been able to properly lose himself in Chat Space in a week. “I’m not.”

\--

When they drop down onto the bed a few minutes later, Marinette tosses her cardigan over the loft railing, and promptly snuggles herself up against him. 

“Adrien, can I ask you something kind of personal?” she whispers against his collarbones, pushing his sleeve back to trace soothing lines into his forearm.

“Go for it,” he says, though he doesn’t really feel up to answering it at the moment.

“Generally dissociation is thought to be a kind of stress-response, right?”

Adrien digs his teeth into his bottom lip, chewing. He nods.

The rapid beating of her heart against his chest reminds him of the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. “You’ve been pretty stressed, but...I haven’t seen much of Chat lately.”

“No,” he says softly.

“Do you think maybe Adrien is actually the stress response?” she asks. “You know. Not _you._ I mean...the whole...Disney prince thing. The BRAND, or whatever.”

It’s a big question. He’s had therapists who wondered the same thing; he honestly can’t say. It isn’t as simple as that; nothing is ever easy and neat with him. He shrugs.

“You miss Chat, Bagueaboo?” he asks, petting her hair fondly.

“Of course I do,” she snuggles in closer, pressing her lips to the place behind his ear that she’d discovered the night before. His skin goes all tingly, and he can't quite supress the moan that escapes him. “I miss every part of you when you’re away. Is that creepy? I don’t mean to be creepy; I mean if this is making you uncomfortable--I--”

“I know you’re worried,” he says gently, eyes fluttering shut as her lips affix themselves, sucking lightly, to the tendon that leads down toward his shoulder, which he expects she’s done to shut herself up, “but I promise--” he gasps a little at a light graze of her canines, his entire body responding all at once; she moves against him in a way she hasn’t before--serpentine and determined and with great, intense focus, everything in her demanding hands and her stuttering hips screaming that she isn’t messing around now-- “that I won’t actually try to break the moon in half.”

\--

Turns out she’d kicked him out of the bathroom earlier that morning so he wouldn’t notice her concealing “ _his stockings”_ beneath her trackies.

He completely forgets about the moon and his identity and his family and all of his troubles when she hooks those red, red ankles over his shoulders.

Nobody interrupts them this time, because--though he doesn’t know it--Marinette’s had one of his socks threaded through the trapdoor ever since they woke up.

\--

If there is one sound nobody should ever be forced to wake up to, it’s Cardi B mashed up with the theme song from _Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles_. Sure, gimmicky-nostalgic tracks are great and all, but _not_ at five in the morning. Alya groans in absolute rage as she tries to hunt down Nino’s phone--this _has_ to be Kagami’s doing; she is an agent of pure chaos, after all, because Nino himself would _never_ subject Alya to an alarm this stupid.

Alya reaches across the mattress to poke him, but...huh. Nino isn’t in poking range.

Where the hell is Nino, anyway? Why isn’t _he_ turning off his phone? She thumbs, annoyed, at the screen, trying to remember his passcode.

But--something is strange, and she notices it immediately upon silencing the stupid bastardy thing. Nino has a bunch of notifications from twitter and Instagram; he’s gained something like…

...she blanches. Nino has gained six hundred followers in an _hour._

 _...what the hell_? She thinks to herself, before horror dawns on her.

No.

_...no._

She climbs out of bed, tossing on one of Nino’s t-shirts, before she starts making her way downstairs. When she reaches the kitchen, the lights are off, and Nino is still nowhere to be found. She _hmmms_ to herself, slipping into Marinette’s goofy bunny slippers that have been discarded by the front door; he can’t have been up long, because Plagg is still licking happily at a full wedge of hastily-thrown brie.

Padding into the hall, she makes her way toward the bakery; maybe he’d just gotten an early start, and the notifications are nothing terrible, and she’s freaking out over nothing--

\--Nino is standing in the bakery’s back entrance. He hasn’t even put glasses on. He’s just frozen there in place in his Batman boxers, gaping at the front door.

“Holy shit,” Alya gasps. “Holy _shit._ ”

Stretching down the street outside are throngs of people in black windbreakers, cameras resting on shoulders and microphones clutched in excited fists; Nadja fucking Chamack is in front of the door, coffee steaming as she gossips with one of the guys from--

“Jesus Christ, that’s the BBC,” she gasps. “ _The BBC is outside_ , Nino.”

“Yeah, um...Kagami’s pretty pissed off. She can’t be seen coming over in case it’s a conflict of interest,” Nino says by way of greeting. “Luka might manage it, though; he said something about scaling the balcony.”

“ _Who told?_ ” Alya hisses, grabbing Nino by the waistband. “ _Who did it_?!!”

The look on Nino’s face tells Alya she really isn’t going to like the answer.

“So,” Nino’s face crumples into a wince, “...it’s not really a matter of who told so much as what Marinette didn’t mean to tell...anyone.”

\--

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

“MARINETTE.”

The new day has barely begun; her alarm hasn’t gone off--why is someone yelling?

“ _MARINETTE._ Get up, guys. GET UP.”

Marinette blinks up at the pinkness of her ceiling; her hand hits something solid, something warm against her chest--oh, it’s Adrien’s face. He’s drooling on her again, lips slightly parted against her goosebump skin, a light spray of white-gold stubble peppering his chin.

She melts at the sight; at the feeling of his breath puffing over her bare chest. Her eyes flutter closed again, content to soak in the warm--

\--pounding registers in her mind... _hard_ pounding, the kind that rattles the little nicknacks on the shelf above her head. A glass butterfly falls, smacking her straight between the eyes.

“Ow,” she thinks she says out loud; she’s still half-dead.

“MARINETTE! ADRIEN! _GET UP!_ ” 

Alya. It’s Alya. Alya is yelling.

 _Ping,_ goes her phone.

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

“That’s not my alarm,” she says to Adrien, still completely disoriented from sleep. The sound of wood meeting wood finally snaps her out of her sleepy trance, and she gives Adrien’s shoulder a light shake.

“Mmmfff,” he murmurs, cheek grazing her skin, before burying his nose more deeply into her sternum, pulling her tightly into the circle of his long arms. He sighs happily, squeezing her sides, quiet little snores resuming.

“God damnit--oh _gross;_ no… _Plagg,_ your litterbox is _right there…_ ” Alya groans, before she starts climbing Marinette’s loft ladder.

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

_Ping._

“What the hell…?” Marinette mutters, willing her phone to stop beeping at her; it’s mashed beneath Adrien’s bare hipbone. He must be stuck on one of the buttons or something--

“Adrien, Mari, I’m sorry to just barge in on you, but you need to get up _now,_ ” Alya says. “Marinette, give me your phone.”

 _Ping._ _  
_

_Ping._

Adrien grunts where he blankets her; he turns his head sleepily toward Alya before going, “Oh, hi, good mo--OH SHIT,” and scrambling to cover himself and Marinette with the duvet. “ _Alya!_ ”

She’s just dived across the bed to get to the source of the infernal pinging.

Marinette still isn’t quite with it.

She’s also _very_ sore.

“Alya, what’s happening? It’s not even light out--”

“IknowIknowI’msorry,” Alya grunts, staring down at the little device wearing an expression that is nothing short of murderous. “I’m taking it to Max-- _oh my god,_ I am so sorry, you guys.” She covers her eyes with a hand. “I like your tattoos though, Adrien. Very cool.”

“Thank you…?” Adrien blinks at her, cheeks red. “Wait, who did you say--did you say _Max?_ You’re taking the phone to Max?” He gasps theatrically. “ _No._ ”

Marinette’s stomach bottoms out, and from the way Adrien’s jaw has fallen askew, his has too.

“What’s wrong?” Marinette asks groggily. “Do people know he’s here?”

“Let’s just say we should’ve checked out _your_ stuff at the same time we checked your man’s,” Alya says cryptically. “And you _better_ not have made a sex tape last night.”

“WHAT?!!” Marinette and Adrien both squeak, at the exact same time, in the same key and everything.

\--

Three months of texts, originating from the end of May to the beginning of August, along with a multitude of shared photos, are now splashed all over twitter and Instagram and who knows where the hell else like grotesque party decorations. There are hundreds of screenshots; thousands of comments; paragraphs and paragraphs of speculation in languages Marinette doesn’t even recognize, much less understand. Nino’s is the only social media account that has been blitzed so far, but that’s only because Marinette’s Insta is private and her profile picture is a macaron shaped like a ladybug, and she hasn’t been on Facebook since before she divorced Luka.

Still...

... _still_.

She’s a trending tag on twitter. 

...well...kind of.

_#WhoIsMarionetteChang_

Her name is mis-spelled.

\--

To say that Adrien is upset is probably the greatest understatement in human history. He has never been this angry. _Never._ At anything. And he’s had a _lot_ to be angry about. 

Marinette feels...well.

Marinette feels scared, and numb, and _weird._

This is one of her worst nightmares. 

She’s never had a worst nightmare happen in real life.

“They could’ve gone with worse things,” Marinette says, though she doesn’t really know what the hell it is she’s saying, anyway. She’s just been blathering a constant stream of half-somethings since Alya told her she wasn’t allowed to go downstairs because of the fucking paparazzi insanity outside. “The text messages aren’t that bad, are they?”

(She isn’t really thinking about the text messages, though. She’s thinking about Gabriel coming after her and her family and her friends. She doesn’t know _why_ he’d come after them; he’d all but given her his blessing just a few mornings ago, so something doesn’t quite add up. Part of her is terrified. The other 78% is just plain confused.)

“It’s not just the text messages; it’s the principle of the thing. What if they were _explicit?_ There are _photos._ They took your _photos,_ ” he snarls, stalking around the living room with tear-red eyes and bared teeth and wild hair and the light bouncing morning-weak across his bare, hickey-marked chest. Nino and Marinette stare back at him in shock; Alya’s already gone downstairs to brave the paparazzi, because she’s a journalist already and she knows at least _some_ of the nutjobs that are outside, and she _has_ to get to Max. 

It’s early, but not as early as it should be, not for a baker. 

They can _hear_ the crowd down below.

Adrien won’t even let them go near the windows for fear that someone will get a photo of them.

Marinette still doesn’t know what to make of everything that’s happened. Nino’s laptop screen is cluttered with open browser windows; her words and Adrien’s are splashed across it with more ceremony than a royal wedding. Who _is_ this mysterious little French woman? Where did they meet? Is she hiding Adrien from the cops? Is Adrien in Paris? Are they in on the whole Gabriel scandal? _Marionette Chang,_ they’re calling her; apparently it was an American magazine Marinette’s messages had been leaked to. _Ugh._ The photos are grainy and low-quality, but as Adrien had been in LA at the time they were taken, and Marinette still hadn’t been completely comfortable with sending him, like, straight-up nudes, or whatever, there’s nothing _too_ risque or embarrassing. There _is_ a still from the clip of her slipping into the Gabriel pink dress on her birthday, her fingers blurred where she pulls up her zipper, but that’s the worst thing they’ve got. Nobody seems to have posted the actual video so far, which she’s deeply grateful for. Even _this_ much is enough to set her poor, old-fashioned father to murdering people if he ever sees it, though. There isn’t anything truly _incriminating_ , apart from the fact that she very obviously shares a close relationship with Adrien.

...still...considering how secretive they have been, this is...this is definitely a slap in the face.

“How did anyone get hold of my phone anyway?” Marinette shakes her head, staring down at the screen. “I never _go_ anywhere. Nobody outside of our friends group even knew I--”

“My father visited,” Adrien suddenly stops, eyes blown wide; practically black. “My father _visited you._ ”

Marinette’s eyes begin to prickle.

Had...had one of their friends done this…? Kagami, or...or Luka...or Kim, or…

 _No._ NO. They couldn’t have.

For one thing, Alya would rip their throats out with her teeth, and none of them are stupid enough to risk _that._

“Adrien, he was never anywhere _near_ my phone--besides, these are from _ages_ ago; all of this stuff is from _months_ back--it had to have been someone else--”

“Don’t defend him!” Adrien snarls, knocking over the coat rack as his arms explode outward. “Who _knows_ what he has or hasn’t done? How dare he. _How dare he_?”

Marinette stands up, crossing the room, holding a hand up to him, which he latches onto with such force in his grip that she eeps. He’s shaking so hard that his teeth are chattering. 

“Adrien, don’t jump to conclusions just yet,” she says. “Remember, other people were involved in this thing--and truthfully, I mean, they can’t even spell my name right, so--”

“I have to talk to him. I have to just--go out there, and...I’m going to talk to him,” Adrien snaps, twisting away from her, making his way toward the stairs. He stomps upward with such rage that it leaves Marinette somewhat breathless, but Marinette catches his wrist before he can actually disappear back into their room.

“But if you leave they’ll pap you,” Marinette says desperately, “and then they’ll know for sure that you’re here. They don’t know that yet, right? Which is good!”

Adrien blinks at her, teeth gritted, before he dissolves into something akin to abject despair. “He has to tell me the truth, Mari.”

“But they’ll _know you’re here,_ ” Marinette moans, “and then--and then they’ll think, I don’t know, they’ll think _I’m_ associated with--with the mess, and they’ll say _more_ horrible things about you--I mean, I can’t exactly make you look _good,_ can I? Little...trashy...flour on my stockings--I don’t know--The fact that I--that I’ve been hiding you--” She starts hyperventilating; she trips over a shoe; she knocks into the bookcase. “I mean, I can’t even open the bakery; what would I even _say_ to the press; what will they say to _you;_ what are my parents going to think; they don’t even know I’m seeing anyone; what if I have to testify against you or something; what if--”

Nino’s hand clamps down on Marinette’s shoulder, and he pulls her up under his arm. 

“Call him, Adrien,” this is Nino. “Facetime him. He’s in fancy-ass prison right? I know they don’t...allow that, or whatever, but I bet they’ll make an exception for you. I bet Kagami would know who to connect you with. We can--there are, like, workarounds. Yeah? Right, dude. No need to just--storm the metaphorical Bastille or whatever.”

Adrien draws in a tight breath. That...that works. He won’t have to leave at least, and he won’t have to expose the bakery to people who would demand to know what he’s doing there.

“Okay,” he says, willing his pulse to slow. “Okay. Good idea, Nino.”

“I’ll get the iPad,” Marinette says, sweeping past him on the stairs, dashing upward.

Nino watches all of this, completely silent. When Adrien turns to gauge his reaction, he just looks blank.

“I don’t get it,” Nino says softly. “All of these messages are ancient. Like, whoever had this has been sitting on it for months. Why would they release it now?”

“I don’t know,” Adrien says. “I--I don’t understand any of this. At all.”

“You really think your dad did all this?”

“I don’t know.” 

(Yes, Adrien does.)

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

Adrien shrugs. 

Nino shrugs back.

What else can they say?

\--

Adrien stands alone in the middle of the stairwell between the flat and the bakery with the tablet clutched in his hands and his teeth gritted. He can see himself in the security screen hanging over the check-in desk behind the poor woman who’d made the mistake of answering his call. God, even when he’s on a screen, he’s on a screen. screens screens screensscreensscreensscreensscreens

Against the dimness of the room, his wild golden hair and his pre-worn, ripe snowy jumper make him gleam like the Angel Raguel. 

He hopes his anger is tangible. 

It is outside of normal visiting hours. He called a _receptionist._ It isn’t even a prison line; the lady is named Claudia and she’s a friend of Kagami’s. This isn’t _remotely_ allowed. In real life this would never fucking happen; it’s just stupid. If this were a scene in a film he’d laugh at the _idiocy_ of it.

His entire life is a badly written soap opera.

The poor receptionist stares back at him in ill-concealed fear as he hisses that he has to see his father, _now, please._ He smiles at her as prettily as he can over teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw is going numb. No, it’s not right that he’s throwing his weight around. It isn’t the receptionist’s fault. But the fact...the fact that he has to do this at _all..._

If his fucking family is so hell-bent on turning him into one of them, he will turn it back on them. He _is_ an Agreste, isn’t he? He can do the Agreste thing. He can act like an Agreste. 

It takes several tries to get the warden to agree to putting his father on-screen. He ignores the warden’s insistence that he can’t make an exception for him; he goes straight on to demanding to speak with the superintendent, who turns out to be quite a slimy young woman in a pale lilac suit. She finally agrees to allow Gabriel this one facetime call, as they are operating under extraordinary circumstances (they _aren’t;_ Adrien is just _that_ rich and famous). Adrien uses every last ounce of charm and intimidation and power he has to convince her to let him see his father; he stops short at outright bribery, because he isn’t an actual criminal, but... the fact that he has to see any of these people at all...the fact that his father has led him _here..._ and the way they all look at him, like he’s something interesting; something to be dissected, someone who could be as guilty as anyone else in his family…

...All anyone ever does is use him. He exists purely for other people to look at and to wonder about and to observe. No wonder his father is a complete misanthrope. Humanity is EXHAUSTING. He is _not_ their product to dispose of; he is not their entertainment. He is real and he is STRONG, and he will not, _will not_ allow them to own any part of him, _no one,_ not anymore.

\--

Gabriel has the kind of money that keeps him separated from the rest of the prison’s population. When he’s brought out, and Adrien is presented to him via what he suspects is a pretty shit old smartphone, Gabriel’s jail blues look more like expensive pyjamas than a mark of shame. Adrien hates him. He hates his stylishness; the way his stupid fucking soft-serve hair looks impeccable, even now. Adrien _hates_ him.

“This is unusual,” Gabriel says, cold; disinterested.

“For us? No. Not really,” ” Adrien says by way of a greeting, teeth bared, heart stuttering. 

Gabriel smirks at that, eyes flicking sideways for a moment, before settling on Adrien’s face again. “I assume you’ve called to complain.”

“I--” It’s such an emotionless, dismissive, _rude_ statement that Adrien loses all semblance of self-control. His entire identity is transported to a place he’s never gone outside of Chat Space; somewhere white-hot and cold blue and empty, and he’s probably dissociating again, because he almost can’t connect to anything outside of the absolute despair he feels, but it’s too late now. The stairwell disappears; his world narrows to his father’s icy flax flower eyes. “Why would you do this to me? To us _?_ _Why_?”

“I didn’t,” Gabriel says coolly, completely unmoved by Adrien’s rage. 

“Then who _did_?”

“I have my suspicions.”

“Ah. Suspicions. _Great._ You’re making an excellent case for yourself.”

“Is there any point in making a case for myself?” Gabriel’s calm, damnable eyebrow drifts ceiling-ward. “Clearly you’re blaming me one way or the other.”

“You allowed it to happen,” Adrien says, clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails draw blood from his palms. “You’ve hurt me. You’ve hurt Marinette. You ruined Nathalie. You’ve hurt _everyone_ I care about. Why?”

“I don’t seem to recall anyone making you part of the interrogation.”

“YOU did,” Adrien seethes, “when you let Lila Rossi put that tracking app on my phone. And now-- _and now_ you’ve gotten Marinette mixed up in it. _Why?_ ”

Gabriel flicks a glance at the brute of a security guard at his side; the macho, shaved-headed thing staring at Adrien like he’s some kind of zombie ready to eat all of their brains. It’s a damn good thing Adrien isn’t actually speaking to him in person; he probably _could_ blow up the moon right now if he had the right tools.

Gabriel draws a breath, and levels Adrien with the same disconnected judgement he has ever since Adrien was a little boy.

“Sit,” Gabriel commands. “Your picture keeps shaking. It’s distracting.”

Adrien punches the wall.

“Fine,” Gabriel sighs. “If you’re going to embarrass yourself…”

“Nothing in my life will ever embarrass me half as much as _you do_ ,” Adrien spits.

His father draws a breath, and lets it out again. “They’re going to make me hang up, Adrien, if you don’t calm down. They’re already doing us a favor. To think you couldn’t wait two hours for regular visiting times...”

“To think you couldn’t be a decent human being, you know... _ever,_ ” Adrien snaps, and it’s childish, and bratty, and dumb, but that’s where he’s at right now.

A clock ticks loudly from Gabriel’s side of the call; the sound comes through even across their somewhat spotty connection. 

Why isn’t it digital? How pointlessly overdramatic.

“I suppose it wouldn’t help at all to tell you that everything I did, I did for us.”

“There are photos--there are photos of _Marinette_ on _twitter--_ ”

“Was she indiscrete?”

“ _No!_ Someone _leaked_ them. She’s as secretive as _I_ am.” Adrien glowers. “Why are you doing this?”

Gabriel stares at him. “I’m _not._ ”

“Liar.”

“You have no reason to believe me,” Gabriel says calmly, “but I’m telling you _I didn’t do that._ I haven’t done anything to Sabine’s girl; I wouldn’t. There’s no _point._ ”

Adrien blinks at him for a second. “Sabine’s--”

His father waves him off, utterly dismissive. “Nevermind. I have never done anything to harm you, or _her,_ on purpose.”

“Oh _really._ What about everyone else then? So you’re trying to tell me you blackmailed and threatened all of my exes out of the goodness of your heart? I don’t think even _you_ could find fault in me questioning THAT--”

“Oh, _stop_ ,” Gabriel sighs. “I did it because you have no idea how to take care of yourself. You’d let them smear you for the rest of their lives, with zero repercussions. You’ve never had a relationship that proves otherwise.”

“Marinette...well, she _was..._ ” he starts, but then his brain shuts down. His face falls. Who the hell knows if he and Marinette are okay? Nobody has _ever_ been okay with this before...not the ones who weren’t in it for the notoriety, anyway.

“Are you saying whatever you’re carrying on about now has come between you and Mlle. Dupain-Cheng?” Gabriel considers him. “Please tell me you didn’t handle this with your typical flair.”

Adrien hates the way he can’t argue with that. “Well, I _was_ locked in my room for most of my formative years; I never did develop socially, _did I?_ ”

“ _Well,_ if you’d demonstrated you possessed the barest _sliver_ of common sense...”

“Are you--the person in handcuffs--proselytizing to _me_ about _common sense?_ ”

“Of course I am.”

“Do _not_ blame this on me!” Adrien snarls. “This isn’t my _fault!_ ”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. _Fault._ Who is or isn’t at fault isn’t even an issue here. Assigning blame is _childish._ ”

“Oh, it’s an _issue,_ ” Adrien eye is twitching now. “I’m angry, Father.”

“I suppose you have a right to be. And I also suppose, because you’re _angry,_ everything I’ve ever done for us means nothing?” 

“Everything you’ve done--everything you’ve _done?_ What you’ve DONE is obviously the problem!” Adrien shouts. _“Obviously!_ Father, how--how can you sit there and think that _anything_ you’ve done is somehow justifiable?”

“Because,” Gabriel says simply, “it is.”

“Then explain _how,_ ” Adrien snarls out again, and he is mortified to realize he’s crying. Fuck. He’s crying in front of his father. _Fuck._

Gabriel removes his glasses from his face, pressing a thumb to his left eye. 

“I was trying to find your mother,” he says at length, and his entire body slumps as though the air has been let out of it. “The police were no help to us, were they? So...I took it upon myself to...try, at least.”

Adrien does the opposite. Every last muscle seizes. His lungs freeze. “What?” he croaks.

“For years,” Gabriel says. “For _years_ I have been searching.”

He’s lying.

He has to be lying.

“I... _what?_ ”

“You were never supposed to be involved. Not when all of this started anyway; not when I was first looking for her. Nathalie always insisted that I tell you, but--” Gabriel’s pinky begins to tremble, before the shaking moves up to rattle the rest of his hand. “I searched for _years,_ Adrien.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“No,” Gabriel says. “Nothing came of it, not really, until...I was contacted in 2019 by a woman in Paris who supposedly knew where Emilie was. She told me that all I’d have to do in exchange for...for updates...on your mother...was provide information on you, because she was a gossip journalist, and you’re...well. You’re lucrative, aren’t you? She was just a lowly gossip journalist; what could it hurt? She...made herself appear...as though...we could be beneficial to each other. And I thought...fine. I knew Emilie never wanted to see any of us again; all she wanted was...but I thought if I could just...know that she was out there somewhere...”

“Father…” Adrien chokes.

“I didn’t believe the journalist at first,” Gabriel says, eyes still closed, still digging into their sockets with his fingers. “But she had something...that Emilie had apparently given her as a Christmas gift…”

“ _W_ _hat_?”

“The peacock broach I gave your mother on our second date,” Gabriel says, and his voice is the tiniest shard of a thing; the smallest sound in the universe. “She had it.”

“Father-- _how?_ ”

Gabriel holds his hand up. “So I’d leak things to her in exchange for stories. She told me about how she and...your mother would go to the flower shop in the fifth arrondissement on Summer mornings. She told me...about Emilie’s favorite shoe store, and how she wore t-straps to church for Easter, and how she’d finally bought...that little cottage outside the city, by the sea, just as she’d always wanted...beautiful stories, Adrien. They were so beautiful, and it always seemed so real. Things Emilie had always...nobody else should’ve known.”

Adrien has only ever heard his father sound this way once before: one week after his maman left. Nathalie had been the one to tell Adrien, of course, that she was gone, but Gabriel...his father hadn’t accepted it in the beginning. He’d pretended everything was fine. And then, on the Friday morning seven days after her disappearance, he’d burnt a slice of toast, and he’d told Adrien a story about how Emilie hadn’t even known how to use a toaster when they’d first met, because she’d always had people to do that sort of thing for her.

It was the last time Adrien ever saw him look sad.

Adrien’s empty stomach rebels against him as the walls begin closing in.

“All this time, you never told me?” Adrien’s mouth is dry. “I’m supposed to just...accept that you’ve been keeping this secret for _years?_ ”

The security guards behind Gabriel’s chair are dead silent. Adrien doesn’t even register their presence anymore.

“Adrien,” Gabriel says at length. “I couldn’t say anything. How could I tell you, my _son,_ that his mother was living a beautiful life far away without him? How?”

Adrien’s throat spasms around a strangled sob.

“But the journalist’s demands became increasingly extravagant,” Gabriel says softly. “She wanted information on our other contacts; anyone important. And of course, I had collected quite a lot of information...most of which I never intended to use, of course, unless I _had_ to. Rossi’s writing was winning awards; she was finding a place for herself. I admired her ambition, and I...I couldn’t lose the only link to my...your...to Emilie that I had left.”

“Have you--” Adrien swallows. “Have you seen her? Maman?”

Gabriel’s thumb drops; his sclera is red-veined and wet. “No. I was told that there was a restraining order, and I...” he stares at his fingers. 

“ _Is_ there a restraining order?”

Gabriel scoffs. “No, difficult as that might be to believe. I began to have Rossi followed--it was a vain hope, but...but by then, she had access to files that I had that could’ve ruined _me_. I’d given her too much, because I was a _fool._ Those files _are_ ruining me now, of course.”

The _“and you”_ goes unsaid.

“After all that shit about common sense?!! The _hypocrisy,_ Father...how could you be so...so…”

“Stupid?” Gabriel smiles wanly. “Hope is cruel, Adrien. Rossi never gave me receipts, you know; she gave me stories. And...she told me that Emilie never wanted to see us again, which, given that it’s _me,_ I was perfectly willing to accept as truth.” Adrien gasps despite himself; he’s never heard self-deprecation from Gabriel before. “I...I brought Rossi into the Ring around Christmas, at her own request; it was too late not to at that point...she threatened to expose me, and...Nathalie began voicing doubts last Spring, shortly before your interview with _Voici._ Nathalie never liked her, you know. I told Rossi that she couldn’t have personal access to your phone. She took it upon herself to find a way to make it happen despite what I wanted. Adrien, that interview--I _didn’t condone it._ I had no idea what she’d done until you had the apps removed; I never thought, after all I’d done for her, that she’d do something like that...and then Nathalie told me what that Kante boy had found.”

“You thought I would willingly say all of those things about us, about _you_ , to the press... but you never thought for a second that this fucking...this _stranger--_ ”

“I thought Emilie loved her.”

“You didn’t think she loved _me?_ ” Adrien is fucking sobbing now. His face is tacky with tears; his nose is blocking up.

Gabriel shrugs. “She left both of us, Adrien.”

“I am your _son,_ ” Adrien croaks. “I am your _son._ ”

“Yes,” Gabriel says. “And you are so much like Emilie.”

... _and Emilie abandoned me,_ Gabriel does not say.

Thick, horrible silence settles over the connection.

_tic-tac tic-tac tic-tac tic-tac_

Adrien dashes knuckles across his sticky face. “You said you had doubts. What do you mean by doubts? How could she have that broach if…”

“Lila Rossi isn’t who she says she is,” Gabriel says, and his ever-present anger begins simmering again under the heavy fog of sorrow. “She certainly knew Emilie, yes, as much as you or I ever knew her, but she never knew Emilie in Paris. Emilie...Emilie hasn’t been in Paris since you were a small boy. Emilie never...never went any further than the Palisades.”

“The Palisades? That’s in Los Angeles--Ugh, why are you always so cryptic? I don’t understand--”

“Rossi was _lying,_ Adrien,” Gabriel growls. “She lied about everything except having that damned broach.”

“How--how did she have it in the first place?”

“Because she’s a thief, Adrien. Her name isn’t even Lila Rossi,” Gabriel spits. “Her name is Delia Rossitano. I take it you remember her?”

**Adrien’s entire world disintegrates into ash. Visions of a tiny, crumbling, heavily stuccoed little hut of a yellow-arched building in the middle of an Iowan strip mall appear in his mind. He recalls a pair of green, green eyes...green and sharp and feline, like his own. He’d thought they were alike when he’d fallen for her over a decade ago now, with their abandonment issues and their love of the arts and their twin imaginations...he recalls paparazzi photos; grainy leaked nudes and angry texts at 3 a.m.; accusations hurled across cocaine-white club tables at the Viper Room; _“Are you cheating on me? Tell the truth!”_ (Nobody was cheating on anyone.) He still thinks of being pushed down the stairs outside the little flat they shared in Silverlake when he is feeling particularly un-loved...the way Marinette had looked when he’d told her he could ruin them all, because he’s ruined people before…**

...Delia was the woman he’d ruined. _She_ is that McDonald’s in Iowa.

“Her hair was black then,” Adrien says, devastated. “How could...Chloe didn’t even recognize her…”

“She was an extremely talented makeup artist, to be fair,” Gabriel says wryly.

“...you kept all of Maman’s things in the observatory...it was always locked...how could she have...how could she have taken the broach…all those stories she told you about Maman…”

“I wanted to believe them,” Gabriel says simply.

“She’s doing this to get to _me._ ”

Gabriel says nothing.

“This is my fault. I told her everything about Maman; I trusted her and...” Adrien gasps. “This is _my fault._ ”

“No, Adrien,” Gabriel says, with such ferocity that Adrien jumps. “It _isn’t._ ”

Adrien’s face falls into his hands as his shoulders shake. 

“This will paint all of us in a much more favorable light, of course, when the papers get wind of what she’s trying to do to you,” Gabriel says, and the switch back to cold professionalism is so abrupt and so painful that Adrien can’t hold back a sob. “It will garner public sympathy. And whatever that woman has up her sleeve as far as the Dupain-Cheng girl is concerned, I doubt that she’ll get what she wants. Marinette is...not...terrible. Is she.”

“I don’t--who _cares_ about--about _sympathy,_ from the public?” Adrien cries. “How can that even be a consideration right now? Father, this is all so _awful_ \--”

“There are worse things,” Gabriel says softly, and Adrien stares at him for a few seconds. His outline is gummy through the fuzz of Adrien’s tear-logged contact lenses; he doesn’t look real.

“What could be _worse?!!_ ” Adrien practically screams.

Gabriel breathes a sigh through his nose. 

Adrien waits.

Then it hits him.

“Nathalie had doubts,” Adrien says. “Oh. Oh _god._ Dad-- _Maman--_ what did Nathalie find out about Maman? What did she find out?!! _Tell the truth!_ ”

Gabriel doesn’t speak for a very long time.

When he does, Adrien wishes he hadn’t.

\--

Marinette is staring at Nino’s laptop screen when Adrien finds her in the kitchen again. 

It’s been...a very weird morning. 

Her text messages are being shared on Facebook by people who have never met her. Chloe Bourgeois has called her ten times, through Adrien’s phone. She keeps recommending lawyers. Part of Marinette’s brain is still wrapped up in bed with Adrien, stalled in whatever universe she’d inhabited just hours ago; the other part of her is terrified and awash in shock and baffled and…

...she’s traumatized. Holy moly, she's actually _traumatized._

There are pictures of her _thighs_ on the internet, pictures that were only for Adrien. _Her_ thighs. Marionette Chang’s thighs, Adrien Agreste’s secret girlfriend’s thighs. How long will it be until somebody from her school days recognizes her and corrects the spelling? They've managed to track down Nino, after all; if they know Nino is her friend, they'll know who she really is in absolutely no time. When will she start receiving hate mail? When will people out her? Does it even matter that her name is misspelled? What is HAPPENING?

 _Nothing._ Nothing is actually happening. She’s famous on the internet, but nothing has happened yet in actual real life. She’d made herself an omelette while Nino pressed coffee; while Alya went into the outside world to go do damage control. Adrien’s been sitting in the stairwell for three hours. Nino is cleaning the bathroom because what the hell else is he supposed to do? Their house is surrounded by reporters; like a hundred reporters. # _BakeryGirl_ is a thing now--she's trended twice _in a matter of hours--_ but nothing has _happened_ to her so far. Not really.

...really.

...real.

Nothing...nothing feels real.

Is _anything_ real?

She wants to call her parents, but she also _doesn’t_ want to call her parents. Do they know yet? If they know, why haven’t they called? They probably don’t know. 

Parents. She wants to ask Adrien how it’s gone with his father, but she...she'd checked on him in the hall and he'd asked her to give him a minute, but that was over an hour ago. What is he doing? What--

\--when he finally comes through the door, his expression is so blank, it’s like staring at his wax statue. He trips over one of Alya’s shoes. He apologizes to it.

“Adrien--” Marinette breathes, reaching out for him.

He can’t see her. He doesn’t take her hand. He just...zones out where he stares at the carpet, and takes in nothing else.

“I’m kind of hungry,” he says. “Do you still have macarons?”

“I do,” she nods. “Do you want passionfruit?”

She cracks the fridge for him, glancing over her shoulder to watch his reaction. He doesn’t offer one.

“Yeah,” Adrien says, a lacuna. She presses the little cookie into his hand; his front teeth crack it slowly.

“So, the thing with your--”

“Yum,” Adrien chews. His voice sounds...weird.

“Ah, they’re a little dry now--”

“No, they’re good,” he swallows, and then he takes another bite. His mouth is full when he says next, “My mom is dead.”

\--


End file.
